All That Remains
by lielabell
Summary: Spot and Race's relationship grows and changes over the years. 1896-1900
1. Who The Hell Are You?

Who The Hell Are You?

_February 19, 1896_

"Who the hell are you?" Spot glared at the boy sitting in his place at the table.

"You must be Spot," the boy answered, not bothering to look up. "I'm not pleased to meet you."

"Got a smart mouth, don't you, kid?" Spot walked forward and smacked the cap off his head.

"That was a stupid thing to do," the boy said, setting down his cards and pushing back his chair.

"Sit down," Mouse growled, his eyes never leaving his cards. "You should know better than to go messing around with me friends, Spot. Especially with Racetrack here."

Spot blinked and fought to keep control of his temper. He'd never seen this Racetrack around before and so how was he supposed to know where he ranked? But then, that sort of comment was typical of Mouse. He made a game out of making a boy feel as stupid as possible. Still, Mouse was the boss and Spot didn't want to do anything to upset him.

He tamped down on a sarcastic comment and gave the new boy a good once over instead, making it clear how little he liked what he saw.

"Racetrack?" he said with a smirk. "What sort of a name is that?"

"Mine." Racetrack pushed a penny onto the table. "And I don't see how you can talk, seeing as how you go by Spot."

"Shut up, Spot," Mouse said and tossed down a coin.

Spot scowled and moved around the table, pulling up a chair on Mouse's right side. He didn't have the prize seat directly across from the boss, but he was still next to him and that wasn't too bad. He nodded at Rotter and Fagan, but gave Ginger a cold stare. Ginger owed him money and Spot was pretty sure he wasn't going to pay up. Something was going to have to be done there, but that could wait.

Spot's eyes drifted around the table and he wasn't surprised when both Butcher and Poole scowled at him. He smiled in response, wondering what the pair of them were doing at a game hosted by Mouse.

Finally letting his gaze return to the new kid, Spot asked, "You been on vacation or something?" with a smug expression as he laced his hands behind his head. Racetrack chewed on his cigar and didn't bother to reply. Spot leaned back in his chair. "Didn't you hear me?" he asked.

"You might say that," Racetrack said without looking at Spot.

"What sort of an answer is that?" Spot challenged.

"The only one you're going to get." Racetrack removed his cigar and blew out a perfect ring of blue smoke.

Mouse spoke up before Spot could reply. "Race is old, Spot. We respect old. You, you're new. No one cares about new."

"If he's old then why haven't I ever seen him before?" Spot asked as he picked at the dry skin around his nails. He glanced around the table and pulled out his money bag. He pretended to count his pennies while he debated the wisdom of joining the game.

Mouse chuckled. "That's a long story, ain't it, boys?"

Across the table, Racetrack looked up, his face dark with anger. "One that don't need repeating." He jutted his chin out defensively and glowered at Mouse.

Mouse shook his head, a wicked gleam in his bright blue eyes. "Race got himself into a bit of a tiff with Lefty a ways back and it was decided that it was for the best if he took himself off to other parts."

Spot rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He didn't like Lefty, and anything that put that bastard's nose out of joint was something he approved of. "If he's on the outs with Lefty, then why's he here?" Spot asked as casually as he could, hoping that Mouse wouldn't divine his interest.

"In case you didn't notice, Lefty's not in charge here. I am. So I got to thinking, why should I have to miss having me friend Race around just because Lefty doesn't like him?"

Now it made sense. Lefty was, for all intents and purposes, Mouse's right hand man. But neither of the boys liked each other and it was the world's worst kept secret that Lefty was going to make a play for power in Brooklyn whether Mouse liked it or not. And Mouse most certainly did not. Typical of Mouse to find a way of letting Lefty know who was in charge without directly confronting him.

Spot sucked on his teeth, eyeing the way Race's fingers seemed to glide over the cards. A gamester, that one. A good one, too, if the faces of the other players were anything to go by.

Spot pushed his cap back on his head and let a grin slide across his face. "Well now, ain't that interesting," he mused. Race eyes narrowed but he bit back down on his cigar and didn't say a word. "I want in on the next hand," Spot said and then closed his eyes and pretended to relax.

* * *

"Are you always this lucky?" Spot asked after losing his third consecutive hand to Race.

Race grinned. "Luck's got nothing to do with it."

"You're right about that," Ginger muttered and Race felt a rush of pride, which he did his best to hide.

He didn't want to be in Brooklyn. Not after what had happened. And he didn't trust Mouse not to throw him under the wheels if it suited his purposes to do so. He glanced across the table, trying to read the other boy's expression and winced inwardly when he saw the tick in Mouse's cheek. Time to start losing.

With a sigh he tossed down the jack of spades as well as the ten, ruining his hand completely. He picked up two new cards, a two of hearts and a seven of clubs. Just grand. Now all he had was a pair of sevens. No way he would win now, not with the way these boys cheated. He put in two pennies, figuring he had better make a dent in the pile in front of him if he didn't want to have the same sort of trouble with Mouse that he had with Lefty.

Not that it was his fault.

Lefty thought he was a shark. Lefty thought he could hold his alcohol. How could Race be blamed for it if Lefty was wrong? He shifted in his seat, covertly looking at Spot. He was surprised to see Spot shooting the same sort of look at Mouse. _That one has got something up his sleeve_, he thought as he pushed another penny into the growing heap in the center of the table.

Race fought not to frown at his cards. He hated losing. Even when it was by choice. He bit down on his cigar, wished that Mouse's hospitality included something to drink, and wondered how much longer he would have to wait before leaving. Race really hadn't wanted to come. But Mouse had invited him and he wasn't fool enough to ignore it. He still had ties to Brooklyn, after all. Ties that he couldn't afford to lose.

He didn't want to come back and live in Brooklyn -- things were as sweet as they come where he was now -- but he did want to have free access to Sheepshead. And keeping on the good side of the leader was necessary, if unpleasant. So here Race was, purposely losing because Mouse didn't like to know that he wasn't the best, when he would much rather be playing a game for buttons with the boys back on Duane Street.

Race almost smiled when Mouse called and he got to toss aside his worthless hand. He was mildly surprised to see a hand shoot out, flipping over the two cards he had discarded earlier in the game. Following the hand back to its owner, Race gave a half shrug in response to Spot's uplifted eyebrows.

"You're not as stupid as you look," Spot said casually, mixing the cards in with the others.

Race sucked on the end of his cigar and blew a mouthful of smoke in Spot's direction. "That's funny, because you are."

"Cocky little bastard, aren't you?"

"Watch it, Spot," Mouse warned. He reached out and took the cards from Spot without so much as a by your leave and started to deal them. "I told you already, Race's me friend."

Spot shrugged. "Just making conversation," he replied as he picked up his cards.

"Race ain't much for conversation, Spot," Mouse said, flipping the ash from his cigarette onto Spot's shoes. "And I'm sick of hearing your mouth."

Race snorted. Mouse was a heavy-handed tyrant, but he had his moments. He scratched his chin and set about discarding anything that looked like it might have some promise. He gauged the shrinking pile of pennies in front of him and decided that two more hands would set him back far enough to appease Mouse and thereby earn him the right to leave without getting soaked.

* * *

Spot stared blankly down at the cards in his hand, trying not to show how sleepy he felt. It wasn't that long till sundown and he had spent most of his day tramping up and down Flatbush in a vain attempt to sell all of his copies of the late edition. He tapped a finger against the scarred surface of the table and shot a glance at Mouse. The older boy looked slightly irritated, but that was his normal facial expression, so Spot didn't learn anything from it.

Spot watched as Mouse pushed his grimy red hair back behind his ears and wondered where Lefty was. _Must be having as hard a time as I was with those lousy headlines,_ Spot thought, shifting restlessly in his seat.

He glanced across the table and narrowed his eyes as he watched the way Racetrack's eyes darted around the room. It would not at all surprise him if Racetrack had a mental map of all the players' hands. Spot shifted again and stifled a yawn. He hated poker.

Spot stared at his cards and wished they were playing any other game. Gin, now that was his idea of fun. Or trumps. He always had a fine time playing trumps. It took more skill to win at those games. Poker, well you just had to have a bit of luck when the cards were dealt and a moderate ability to bluff. Not much skill in that.

Spot folded, and crossed his arms over his chest, tipping his chair back far enough that he could see the cards the boys on either side of him held. He frowned a little, and tapped the fingers of one hand against his bicep. _How much longer is this night going to drag on_?

He was a little surprised a few minutes later when Racetrack won again. Apparently, so was Racetrack. His eyes were a little too wide and his lips quirked downward -- not the typical reaction to having won a pot. Spot smirked at him and almost smiled at the frown that flashed across Racetrack's face.

Feeling much better than he had a second ago, Spot eagerly reached for the cards dealt to him and put more effort into the game then he had all night. Racetrack was trying to lose, but even when he was trying not to, he was still good enough win a few. That said something about his character. Either he thought all the players were as slick as he was or he anticipated that they would cheat. Spot was thinking it was the latter.

He discarded and managed not to flinch when he saw what the dealer gave him. That was it. This was his last hand. He didn't have enough money to spare to keep playing if he had no chance of winning. He looked down at the meager pile of pennies in front of him and decided he would lose five more before folding.

Three rounds later he was out.

* * *

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure," Race said and he pushed back from the table, his winnings secure in his bag. He'd lost half of what he had made, most of it to Mouse, and so he felt that no one could resent him if he left now. Plus, it was getting late and he didn't want to walk all the way to Manhattan in the dark with a pocket full of money.

"Going so soon?" Mouse raked his winnings towards him.

"It's gonna be dark soon," Race said lightly as he ground out his cigar. He put the remainder in his breast pocket for later.

Mouse tugged at his ear. "Can't have me friend wandering about by himself," he said with a gleam in his eye. "What if something happened to him? People might say that I don't know how to treat me friends. And I wouldn't want that, now would I?"

Race gave him a blank look, not sure where this conversation was headed. "I can take care of myself in a fight, if it comes to that," he said with a confidence he didn't feel. He could take care of himself, if the odds were even. But if Lefty did target him, the odds most definitely would not be even.

Mouse nodded his head agreeably. "That you can, Race. Still, it would be best if a couple of the boys went along with you. Sullivan, Poole and Conlon, you go with him. Make sure he makes it over the bridge with no trouble."

Race shrugged and walked towards the door, certain that the boys named would follow him. Conlon. That must be Spot. Sullivan was Butcher and Poole, well, Poole was Poole. Kind of the way Jack was Jack no matter how many times he tried to get Cowboy to stick. He turned his coat collar up as he stepped into the open air, shivering despite himself.

February, with snow on the ground and everything, and he was out walking about like it was the middle of July. Damn that Mouse and his invitations. He shoved his hands as far into his pockets and they would go and headed down Poplar, then turned onto Hicks, heading for the bridge.

Behind him he heard muffled swearing and he glanced over his shoulder in time to see Poole shoving Spot hard as he hurried to catch up. Spot stumbled but caught himself and gave Poole's back a look that ought to have laid the lanky boy out cold. Race saw Poole exchange a glance with Butcher and remembered too late that both of them had been friendly with Lefty back when Race still called Brooklyn his home.

He thought about the reasons that Mouse could have had for sending those two boys in particular. He thought for a second that Spot might have ties to Lefty as well, but considering the way Poole has pushed him and the dirty looks Butcher kept shooting him, that most likely wasn't the case.

He sighed and slowed down, figuring that he might as well walk alongside the others. At least that way he wouldn't have to worry about them coming at him from behind. "So," he said when they had caught up to him, "Anything interesting going on with you boys?"

Butcher snorted. "Not your business, is it?"

Race shrugged. "It's a long ways to go in silence, Butcher."

"It's a long ways to come and for nothing more then a poker game," Poole said slyly.

"Too long," Race said, keeping his voice neutral. "But Mouse, well he don't like hearing no."

Spot chuckled at that and Butcher jabbed him in the side. "Keep you mouth shut, Conlon."

"In trouble already are you, kid?" Race asked, sympathetic despite himself.

"Trouble," Poole said, glaring at Spot. "That's all he's been so far."

"Then we've got something in common," Race said with a smile. Spot lips twitched up into what would have been a reciprocal smile, if not for the nasty glint in his eyes.

"Not your kind of trouble," Butcher said shortly. "A body can tolerate that sort of trouble. No, Spot here is a different type all together. Thinks he's something, Spot does. Thinks he's got a right to just come around here and nudge his way into other people's places."

Spot's features tightened, but he made no response.

"He's new," Race said, not at all sure why he was defending the boy. "New kids can't help but step on a few toes."

"He's new, not stupid," Poole said.

"He's also standing right here," Spot said with a glare of his own.

Race gave him an appraising glance. "He's short and has an attitude, but I've seen shorter with a bigger one."

"What you think doesn't matter, Racetrack," Poole said with an edge that Race didn't like at all.

Race shrugged again. "Look, boys, I didn't want to come here any more then you wanted me to. I didn't ask for you to escort me out of Brooklyn, and I definitely didn't have anything to do with Spot joining the Brooklyn crew."

Butcher laughed and shook his head. "You weren't too bad, Racetrack. It's a pity you didn't know when to leave well enough alone."

Race smiled at that. "Well, my weakness is well known. I can't help myself when it comes to the cards." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Next time, though, I won't fleece someone quite so big."

Poole laughed. "Don't worry about Lefty, Race. He's got more on his mind than you these days."

"No one minds you being out at Sheepshead," Butcher said, much more amicable than he normally was. "It's too long a walk for most of us to bother with. Not when there are spots just as good, better even, without going half as far."

"I never really thought of it as being a good spot, you know," Race said thoughtfully. "I just go for the ponies."

"You telling me that you walk all the way to Sheepshead to sell?" The disbelief was clear in Spot's voice.

"What's it to you?" Race asked.

"From Manhattan?"

"No, from the moon," he sneered.

Spot shook his head. "I was wrong about you being smarter than you look."

"No one asked you," Poole said, aiming a punch at Spot's shoulder.

Spot dodged the swing easily and said, "No one has to."

"Ain't that the truth," Butcher muttered.

"Well look at that, we're here already," Race said with no attempt to conceal his eagerness to be free of his de facto escort.

Poole stopped walking and pushed his cap back on his head. "Come on, boys, let's get back to where it's warm."

Butcher turned to his back on Race and started going down the street in the opposite direction, but Spot stood his ground.

"This ain't Manhattan," he said.

Poole shrugged. "Mouse never said to cross the bridge with him and I sure ain't going to do it for the fun of the thing. It's freezing here on the street and will be even colder out over the river."

"Besides, Lefty ain't waiting at the midpoint to push him over," Butcher said over his shoulder.

"I'm not leaving till he's in Manhattan," Spot said stubbornly.

"Fine by me," Poole said dismissively. "I wasn't relishing the idea of walking back with you anyway."

Race didn't particularly want to spend any more time then he had to in Spot's company, but he kept his opinion to himself. He had a pretty good notion that Spot's insistence that he accompany Race all the way to Manhattan proper had less to do with him thinking it was his duty and more to do with the dark looks the other two boys kept shooting at him.

Without a word of farewell, Butcher and Poole left. Race stood, watching them. When they rounded the corner he started up the ramp to the bridge, ignoring Spot. He even went so far as to quicken his pace in hopes of ending their journey all the faster. Poole was right. It was colder up on the bridge and Race shivered as he pulled his coat tighter against his body.

"Why are you all but running?" Spot asked after a few moments of silence.

"It's cold and the night is coming on fast."

"So?"

"So, just because I'm not in Brooklyn it doesn't mean that the streets are suddenly safe."

"Especially not with the wad of cash you've got tucked away in the bag of yours."

Race frowned. "Keep it down, would you?"

"What, you telling me you have enemies on this bridge?"

"Nothing like that. I learned my lesson. I know to stop before things get out of hand. Still, it ain't smart to go running your mouth about money when you're out where anyone could here you."

"Yeah, well it ain't smart to fleece a guy like Lefty, either."

Race gave Spot a filthy look. "What do you know about it? You weren't around back then." He pushed up his coat, shoving his hands deep into his pockets in an attempt to warm them up.

"You had to leave Brooklyn on account of it. Anyone with brains would know it didn't work out to your advantage," Spot replied smugly.

Race clenched his hands. "Seems I put a little too much faith in Mouse's loyalty to his friends. Something I won't do again."

"Mouse ain't so bad," Spot commented as he hitched up his britches.

Race gave him a long suffering sigh. "You're new. Talk to me after you've spent some time with the boys." Spot opened his mouth to reply but Race cut him off. "Listen to me, kid. You're what, twelve? Thirteen tops. You've got a while till you can't be lodging in the house any more. Mouse, he's nearly eighteen. In a year and a half, two years at the most, he'll be told to find somewhere else to stay. You can bet he'll leave before that happens. A fella as smart as Mouse will have something waiting in the wings. When he leaves, Lefty is going to take over. And you don't want to be on his bad side when that happens."

"I'm fifteen," Spot said petulantly.

Race raised his eyebrows. "You don't look it."

"I'm taller than you," Spot said as if that settled the matter.

Race rolled his eyes. "You and everyone else in this damn city. But if you say you're fifteen then I'll believe you. It doesn't change the facts any. Lefty will take charge of Brooklyn, and he'll make life hell for anyone he ain't sweet on. So take my advice and make nice with the bum."

"Maybe Lefty won't be boss in Brooklyn," Spot muttered.

Race laughed. "Who is going to stop him? You?"

Spot scowled. "I can handle myself."

"Oh, aye," Race said mockingly. "Wee but fierce, are ye?" Spot let out a loud burst of laughter, and Race wasn't sure if it was his words or the atrocious accent that caused it.

"Wait and see," Spot said, still chuckling. "Wait and see."


	2. Are You Trying To Take My Spot?

Are You Trying To Take My Spot?

_June 24, 1896_

Race rounded the corner and felt his jaw drop. Someone was in his spot. The spot he had been selling at for the last four years. Someone who looked remarkably like that swaggering bastard Spot Conlon. Race scowled. He didn't like Spot. He didn't like him from the moment he met him and nothing that had happened in the past three months had caused him to change him mind.

He walked slowly towards the stands. He nodded at a few of his regulars and touched his cap when a lady walked by, her hair done up in elaborate curls. Race made a face as the breeze blew up from the stables and he caught a whiff of fresh droppings and stale piss. He watched Spot call out headline after headline and his lips twitched up into a wicked smile. So, the kid was in his spot. So what? The kid couldn't sell for beans.

Smirking, he lengthened his stride and called out, "What do you think you are doing?"

"What does it look like?" Spot asked with a smirk of his own.

"Like you're making a fool of yourself."

Spot scowled. "Hardly."

Race pursed his lips. "That and trying to steal my spot."

Spot rolled his eyes. "I'm not stealing anything."

"That's clear as the sky. Still, you're in my spot. So get lost, would you?"

"I've got as much a right to it as you have," Spot said, his chin coming up.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

Race scratched the back of his head. "Is that why they call you 'Spot?' Cause you're always trying to sang someone else's spot?"

Spot gave him an amused look. "Good one, Racetrack. Real clever."

"Are you leaving or am I going to have to make you?" Race pressed, glaring.

"I don't see your name on it," Spot said with a shrug. "Besides, this is Brooklyn. So why don't you just head on back to Manhattan, where you belong."

"I've been coming here since before you were out of shortpants. And as for my name, where do you think Racetrack came from?" Race glanced up at the sun and then moved so that it would be behind him and leaned against the wall of the stands. He set his papers carefully on the ground in front of him and opened one, scanning the sports section.

"Keep on coming with those clever ones, don't you?" Spot said with a look that made Race's blood boil.

"Look, kid, this is my turf," Race said between clenched teeth, eyes still on the paper.

"Sheepshead is bigger than you seem to think, Racetrack. There's more than enough room for both of us."

"How would you know? You've never been here before," Race challenged.

"I asked around."

"Oh, and now you're the expert?"

Spot shrugged and called out to a man walking past. Race glanced up, his eyes narrowed. The man didn't even bother to say no, just kept walking towards the betting window. Race shook his head in mock disappointment.

"You ain't competition." Race said, his focus returning to his paper.

"I do just fine, thank you," Spot said tightly before calling out the day's headlines with renewed vigor.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Race didn't bother to hide his amusement.

"Shut up, Racetrack."

"You can call until your throat is raw but you aren't going to sell a damn thing," Race taunted as he causally closed his paper.

"Works just fine for me out on the street," Spot said, clearly angry.

"In case you didn't notice, we're not out on the street."

"So?"

Race rubbed his nose. "So the men who are here this early in the morning don't give a damn about the headlines, Spot."

Spot shifted his papers from one arm to the other and said, "Then how do you sell them anything?"

Race thought about it for a moment. On one hand, he didn't want to help the good-for-nothing lowlife out, but he had to sell his papers and it would be nice to rub that cocky bastard's nose in the fact that Race was a better seller than he was. He sucked on his lower lip as he considered the matter and then nodded.

"Watch and learn," Race said, pushing off of the wall.

He set his cap high on the back of his head and flipped his paper open again. He folded it over and then stooped to pick up the rest of his papers. Race lifted the first paper high above his head. He took a deep breath and then began to call out the winners from yesterday's races, announcing the handicaps and odds slightly faster than a body could hear them. Then he repeated the process and waited for the crowd to swarm.

"What did you say about Golden Touch?" a man in a faded coat asked, clutching at Race's arm.

Race shook him off. "Buy the paper and find out for yourself."

The man's eyes darted around. "Hand it over," he said, pushing a penny into Race's hand.

"Here you go." Race passed over the folded paper and reached for another one. He let his gaze slip to Spot and was pleased to see an unpleasant expression on the other boy's face. Race winked at him, which made Spot go red and tighten his jaw, and then turned his attention back to the crowd.

"That rag say anything about the odds on Flash of Diamonds?" another man asked.

"Got an inch of column on that one," Race said with a conspiratorial smile. The man paid for his paper and took it with an air of excitement. Race smiled to himself. This was why he came to Sheepshead. Or, at least, part of the reason why. He kept calling out horses and before he knew it he was out of papers.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to where Spot was standing, grinning at the other boy as if he had just won a bet. Spot scowled in return as his attempt to match Race's performance fell short. Race glanced at the stack of papers at Spot's feet and sighed.

He bent over and picked half the unsold papers up, holding one above his head as he started to call again, trying not to wince every time Spot butchered the names and mixed up the facts.

* * *

Spot gave Race a sour look. He would much rather forget the way things had happened this morning. There was nothing pleasant in recalling the way Race's papers had flown out of his hands while Spot's couldn't be given away. The fact that Spot had mainly been occupied in handing papers to Race while the other boy called out a litany of facts and figures left Spot feeling like he'd really like to hit him. Hard. In the mouth.

Still, he had sold all of his papers. And so had Race. He smirked.

"I was right. There is more then enough room for the both of us."

Race lifted one shoulder, "Seems to me that I can just double the amount of papes I take in the morning and you can shove off."

Spot cocked his head to the side. "Now why would I want to do that when it's so easy to sell the papes here?"

"I don't remember you doing much selling," Race said with a cocky smile.

Spot frowned at Race's smiling face and kicked at a rock. He didn't like being shown up. And Race had most definitely done that. He thought about hitting Race again, adding details like the amount of blood that would pour from the split lip and the way Race would whimper from the pain of it.

The graphic image put on smile of Spot's face and he said easily, "I did my fair share," as if it wasn't a lie.

"Is that so?" Race said, raising his eyebrows. "Well then, you shouldn't have any trouble with the afternoon edition, now will you?"

"Afternoon edition?" Spot asked, feeling oddly hollow.

"That's what I said."

Spot gave Race a suspicious look. "What about it?"

"Oh nothing, really," Race said a little to casually. "Only the fact that the morning edition all but sells itself. You actually have to work at it to get the afternoon edition off your hands."

"That's not the way it is normally." Spot scratched his head, more than slightly irritated at the situation. This was not how he imagined the morning going. He was supposed to have waltzed in and blown through his papers like he normally did. With Race suitably impressed, he would casually mention his reason for coming out to Sheepshead and then condescendingly accept Race's thanks.

If the afternoon edition was any harder than the morning was, he might as well just give up now and head back to Brooklyn proper 'cause this was never going to work. Spot scowled and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers clenched into fists.

Race sighed. "I already told you, this ain't like other spots."

"It's a racetrack, not a foreign country."

"Look, I've been working Sheepshead for a good four years now, kid. But sure, go right ahead and ignore me. We both saw how well you did this morning."

Spot thought of how Race's lip would puff up and the shade of purple the skin around it would turn before it yellowed. "What makes the morning pape such an easy sell?"

"How hard is it to sell papes chock full of tips to a bunch of gamblers?" Race asked condescendingly. "It ain't so easy to do in the afternoon, what with the early morning crowd already sure of their picks and the working stiffs who show up for the late races as like to buy as not."

"Why bother?" Spot asked with a frown.

"Because I like a challenge," Race said with a cocky grin.

Spot gave him a discerning look. "Try that on someone who doesn't know you.'

"Funny you should say that, seeing as how you don't."

"Sure I do," Spot said with a smirk. "You're a loud-mouthed chump. You got attitude enough for ten and nothing but hot air to back it up."

Race snorted. "That's your own image you're painting there, Spot."

"Must be why I like you." Spot shrugged. "So what's the real reason you sell the afternoon edition?"

Race rubbed his forehead with the back of his arm. The day had become hot and Spot could see sweat beading on Race's brow. His eyes narrowed and he moved towards the end of the stands, where the sun was beginning to cast a shadow. "I don't really need the extra money, see. So what I make I use to place a few bets of my own."

"What? You aren't saving your pennies in a tin can somewhere?" Spot asked wryly, following him.

Race grinned. "If I am I wouldn't be telling the likes of you, now would I?"

Spot pulled off his cap and fanned himself with it thinking that it would be best to get out of the sun altogether. "I am insulted," he said in mock outrage.

"If I do it again, will you leave?"

Spot pushed a hank of hair behind his ear. "Naw. You're fun when you're riled up."

Race gave him a dark look. "You're got a queer sense of fun, Spot."

Spot gave him a level stare. "And you don't?"

Race swatted at a fly that was buzzing about his head and glanced around. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. You sure aren't going to be getting any invitation from me to join me in my fun any time in the future."

"My poor heart, I don't think it can stand the pain of your rejection," Spot deadpanned as he removed a battered cigarette from his breast pocket and brought it to his lips.

His fingers dug about in his britches's pocket for a moment before he pulled out a box of matches. He pulled one out and shoved the box back in his pocket. With a practiced movement, he flicked the match against the side of the stands and cupped the flame. Centering the end of the cigarette in the flame, Spot sucked deeply, enjoying the harsh burn of the first breath of smoke.

"You certainly made a production out of that," Race said, eyeing him with what looked like amusement.

Spot took another long pull on the cigarette and blew the smoke in the other boy's face. "I earned it," he said coolly.

"Yeah, I saw how hard you were working."

Spot didn't like Race's tone but didn't have anything to say that would change it. Deciding it was best to ignore that comment, he said, "So, you walk all the way to Manhattan for the afternoon edition, or what?"

"Do I look stupid?" Race asked with a chuckle. "I get them in Brooklyn, just like I use to. I eat in Brooklyn too, in case you were thinking of asking that next."

Spot scowled. That was exactly what he planned on asking next. Race rubbed his nose and gave Spot a calculating look. Spot blew some more smoke in Race's direction.

Race dispersed it with a wave of his hand and said, "You can come with, seeing as how you need help getting the ponies straight, and I need someone to cover my tab."

Spot laughed outright. "And you think that someone is going to be me, do you?" he pulled at his collar, trying to get some air down it.

"Yeah, I do."

"What makes you think I'm going to spend my money on your food?"

Race didn't say anything, just stood there smiling. Spot cursed. He really didn't have a choice. "Fine," he bit out.

"I knew you would see it my way," Race said, pushing off from the wall. "Come on, we've got a ways to go."

"And where exactly is it that we are going?"

"Coney Island. I'm in the mood for a fully loaded dog."

Spot stopped walking and glared at him, arms crossed. He was hot and hungry. Which meant that he wasn't in the mood to tramps over to Coney Island. Even if he wasn't, he still wouldn't want to go out there. What was the point? He didn't have the money for even the cheapest of rides and he didn't like the sharp, distrustful looks of the vendors or the way the rich folk paraded around with their noses in the air.

"That's the opposite direction from the distribution center," he said, picking at a small hole in the sleeve of one arm.

"Your feet broken or something?" Race asked, an irritating smile spreading across his face.

"I don't want to walk out there."

"Then don't." Race started walking again. "Look, I'm going to Coney Island. I don't give a damn what you do."

Spot made a face at his back but hurried to join him.

* * *

Race grinned down at his dog with the look of a man contemplating a thing of beauty. "Heaven," he said before taking a bite, eyes rolling in ecstasy.

Spot took a bite of his dog and grunted with satisfaction.

"Charming," Race said around a mouthful of hotdog. He swallowed, "Want to tell me what you were doing in Sheepshead?"

Spot lifted his eyebrows. "No." He took a large bite of his hotdog and gazed off into the distance.

"Let me rephrase that: tell me what you were doing in Sheepshead." Race watched as Spot took another bite and was annoyed when the boy ignored his question. He ran his tongue along his teeth and then said, "See, I've been thinking. You've got to be doing fairly decent for yourself. Otherwise Mouse wouldn't keep you around. So I says to myself, what reason would a fella have for leaving a spot he's doing well at? None, so far as I can tell."

Race leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms waiting for Spot to respond. Spot, for his part, took another bite and continued to ignore him. Race took a deep breath. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. Spot didn't strike him as the sort that just did things. No, Spot definitely was a schemer. And he didn't want to be involved in any schemes. The sooner Spot said what was on his mind, the sooner Race could tell him to shove off.

Race pushed his hat down low on his head to block the sun from his eyes and went on. "There's got to be a reason for it. A body doesn't walk a good three hours out to Sheepshead for the joy of it."

"Didn't take three hours and I didn't walk."

Race pursed his lips. Trying to get information out of Spot was like trying to sell a paper to a reporter. "Not the point, is it?"

Spot shrugged.

Deciding that he had had enough of this beating around the bush, Race said, "What do you want, Spot?"

Spot toyed with a bit of paper on the table. "Haven't seen you around lately," he hedged.

Race laughed. "Ain't that sweet," he said with a grin. "Almost as if we were courting."

Spot glared at him, balled up the scrap of paper and tossed it at him. "We ain't courting, Racetrack," he said blandly.

"Then what's it matter if you see me?"

"It doesn't."

Race rolled his eyes. "Then why'd you bring it up?" Race picked at a bit of pealing paint and silently prayed that he would never have to try and squeeze Spot for information in the future. It just wasn't worth the aggravation.

Spot picked a couple of onions off of his dog and flicked them onto the ground. He licked the mustard off of his fingers and then took another bite.

"I'm starting to see why Poole and Butcher aren't fond of your company." Race crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his legs out under the table.

Spot snorted. "They do what they're told, nothing more, nothing less."

"True enough," Race replied.

He let the conversation lapse, content to eat the rest of his dog and watch the other half walk up and down the boardwalk and take part in the amusements offered. The sun had moved enough not to be glaring in his eyes and the sound of the ocean relaxed him, the way it always did. He smiled, happy to find that Spot's company didn't automatically ruin his enjoyment of the day.

Spot cleared his throat. "Lefty don't like you much."

"Tell me something I don't know," Race muttered.

"That means that I do."

"What?" Race asked slightly confused but grateful to finally be getting to the root of the matter.

Spot lifted one hand and said, "Lefty is a bastard. Anyone who has gotten the better of him is all right by me."

"And you came all the way out here to tell me that?" Race asked skeptically. He sucked on his bottom lip, contemplating his best course of action. Lefty was already out for his blood. Nothing Race did was going to change that. But right now the smarmy bastard was too preoccupied with Mouse to have time to bother Race. That might change, however, if Race were to do something that brought him back to Lefty's notice. Something like aligning himself with Spot, who clearly was more than just a thorn in Lefty's side.

Still, Lefty wasn't likely to be coming out to Sheepshead any time soon. And Race knew Lefty's haunts well enough to avoid him.

So, in all honesty, what had he got to lose? And what did he gain? An ally. Not a very strong one, but an ally all the same. And at no cost to himself. Race nodded.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You do realize this little jaunt of yours is going to get back to Lefty." Race wanted to be clear that Spot understood the future implication of his actions. No point becoming allies with someone who didn't know what they were in for.

Spot nodded. "Why else would I have come?"

Race clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Not smart, Spot."

Spot took another bite and chewed slowly. He swallowed and then shrugged. "Think I care what that bum thinks?"

"Sure do." Race eyed Spot's casual posture and shook his head. Spot wasn't stupid. He must know by now that Lefty wasn't someone you wanted to tangle with. Clearly, he wanted a way to stick it to Lefty without actually doing anything the other boy could get back at him for. So he took the most obvious way, same as Mouse, and came to call on Lefty's favorite foe. And that, Race decided, was something of a compliment.

Spot gave him a questioning look. "Oh?"

"You don't care, you says. Then why come at all? There are a lot easier ways to tweak Lefty's nose."

"I don't do things by half."

Race lifted one shoulder, thinking about all that had happened before he had been forced out of Brooklyn. "It's your funeral."

Spot gave him a hard look. "Offending Lefty ain't the end of the world."

Race snorted. "Ain't it?" he cracked his knuckles. "I'll be the first to admit that getting on the wrong side of Lefty was the stupidest thing I ever did."

"That's you, ain't it?" Spot said with an unconcerned air.

Race laughed at Spot's bravado. Lefty was dangerous. Plain and simple. And if Race hadn't left when he had, he had no doubt that he wouldn't be alive today. "I gave you good advice; it's not my fault if you ain't smart enough to take it." He pressed his lips together, not at all liking the memories this conversation was raising, then stood up. "We got to get going if we want to make it in time." He started walking, not bothering to wait to see if Spot would join him.

* * *

Spot wasn't a slow walker by any means, but he didn't seem to be able to keep pace with Race. He didn't understand it. He was taller than the other boy, and that meant his legs were longer. As far as he saw it, Race should be the one struggling to keep up with him. He put a hand to his side, pressing against the ache, and was grateful that Race was too far ahead to see. He sped up, all but running, and managed to close the distance between them.

Race walked on, ignoring him. Spot didn't like being ignored. Especially not when he had made such an effort to be noticed. He cleared his throat. Race didn't even glance at him. He began to whistle a tune. Race somehow managed to increase his pace. Spot stopped whistling, not having the breath to waste on it.

"What is it like in Manhattan?" Spot wheezed.

"What's it to you?" Race said nastily.

"What, is it confidential?" Spot mimicked.

Race pulled a face and then seemed to consider the question. He slowed his pace as he thought, fingers tapping against his leg. "Loud," he finally said. "Manhattan is loud."

"Loud?"

"Yeah. Loud. And brash and a bit on the arrogant side."

"You talking about Manhattan or its leader?" Spot wasn't really interested, but anything that kept Race walking at a normal speed was worth the effort.

"Manhattan doesn't got a leader."

"What?" Spot asked, not able to keep the surprise from his voice. He glanced around the street trying to get his bearings. He didn't normally go south of Kensington. He was good enough not to have to. But seeing as how he didn't recognize a thing, he was thinking that he might have to change that. It didn't look good to have some kid living in Manhattan better acquainted with the streets than he was.

"You heard me," Race said with a satisfied smirk.

It took a moment for Spot to remember what they were talking about and when he did he shook his head. "No leader. That's . . ." Spot trailed off, not certain what words to use in order express the lunacy of the idea.

"Yeah, it's exactly like that," Race said with a fond smile. "Part of its charm, actually."

"How does anything get done?" Spot tried not to gasp for breath. Race had slowed enough that he could keep up comfortably, but the earlier exertions had taken their toll.

Race laughed. "It doesn't. Not the way it does in Brooklyn. Still, we do alright. Got some understandings with the other lodging houses, that helps come winter. For the most part, though, it's every man for himself."

"That's plum crazy," Spot said bluntly, forcing himself to breath evenly.

Race shrugged. "Works for them. Works for me too, now that I think about it."

"What do you do when someone tries to edge in on your territory or some a group of toughs tries and give you trouble?"

Race scratched his head. "You get your friends together and soak 'em."

"And if that don't work?"

"You find somewhere else to sell."

"Which explains why you are willing to walk back to Brooklyn."

Race stopped walking and gave Spot a direct look. "That doesn't have anything to do with why I come to Sheepshead."

Spot stumbled as he came to a halt. Race's eyes were narrowed and his hands were balled into fists. Spot raised his eyebrows. That was plenty of reaction to a simple statement. Spot felt himself smile. All information was worth having in his book. And anything he might learn about Race was doubly so. Sheepshead mattered. And Spot was going to do his damndest to find out why.

Spot made his voice casual as he said, "If you say so."

Race gave him a strange look and started walking again at a much slower speed. "It's got its good points, Manhattan."

"Oh, and those would be?"

"The boys themselves, for one thing. None of them are as narrow or bullheaded as the lot you deal with in Brooklyn."

Spot raised his eyebrows. He wasn't aware of the Brooklyn boys being narrow or bullheaded, but then Race's recent experiences most likely colored his impression of them. He cleared his throat and decided to be tactful for once in his life. "Independent, then, are they?"

"What's it to you, anyway?" Race asked, scowling again.

Spot gave him a sideways look. _That's what comes of being tactful_, he thought. "You got something against telling me?"

"You ain't my friend," Race said bluntly. "So why should I be telling you anything?"

"I ain't your enemy either." Spot wanted that made perfectly clear. Friendship wasn't something he offered to most, hell simple courtesy wasn't often up for the taking. But he liked Race enough to want to offer it to him.

"Not yet," Race muttered under his breath. "But I still don't like you."

"That's too bad," Spot said honestly, "Because I do."

"You do what?"

"Like you." Spot was slightly taken aback by how upfront he was being. He fidgeted, his hands brushing at the front of his shirt.

Race glanced heavenward. "Just my luck," he said darkly.

"I'm not so bad," Spot said with a grin, happy that Race wasn't taking him seriously. "Better company than those Manhattan boys, that's for sure."

"I happen to like those Manhattan boys. And that ain't the case with the ones you find on this side of the bridge."

"Meaning me?" Spot again surprised himself by asking.

Race shuffled his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. He made a face and picked up his pace, but didn't answer the question.

"So you like the Manhattan boys," Spot said, changing the subject while trying to keep up. "Good thing. Seeing as how you live over there."

"You're got a smart mouth, Spot," Race said with a hint of irritation.

"So do you, Race."

"But it's part of my charm," Race smirked.

"Hardly."

"Ah, what do you know?" Race grimaced and increased his pace again.

Clearly, upsetting Race was not a smart thing if Spot wanted to keep from running. He cast about for a safe subject, discarding his ideas of probing for more information. "How much longer do we have to go?" Spot finally asked as his legs started to cramp from maintaining the speed at which they were walking.

Race pulled a face. "Thirty minutes, if you can keep at this pace. And from the looks of you I'd say that's not gonna happen."

"I can walk as well as the next body can," Spot snapped, angry that he couldn't keep up and that Race had noticed.

"Ten to one you will be cramping tomorrow."

Spot gave Race his best smile. "You got your odds wrong on that one."

Race didn't return it. "Spot, The Expert."

"Spot knows what he's talking about."

"You always talk about yourself like you're someone else?"

"You always walk like you got the devil chasing you?"

Race laughed and Spot grinned, pleased with himself.

Race shook his head and smiled. "You ain't nothing but a pain in the rear. You crow and you swagger, and you ain't got the good sense the Lord gave a flea, but you're funny. I've got to admit that. You're funny."

Spot let the words settle between them, happy to have had a positive reaction from Race. He knew the other boy wasn't too keen on him, and he wanted to change that. Making him laugh seemed like a step in the right direction.

He looked up at the buildings lining the street and was equally pleased to actually recognize them. He wasn't exactly sure where he was yet, but he had been here before and was reasonably sure that he could find his way back to the lodging house without Race if he had to. Spot nodded at a fella sitting on the stoop of a rundown tenement and then returned his attention to Race, who had decided to whistle a jaunty tune as he walked.

He smiled to himself and thought about what he had learned about Race so far today. Race was a good newsie. One of the best he had met so far. Which probably explained why Mouse deigned to call him friend. He was also stubborn, sarcastic and full of himself. That more than anything was why Spot liked him enough to want to call him friend.

A broken marble caught his eye and he bent down to pick it up. It was a faded blue with a bright yellow stripe through what use to be the middle. He turned it in his fingers and watched how it caught the light.

"You like to do things the hard way," he said, slipping the marble into his pocket.

"What do you mean?" Race was clearly affronted.

Spot pushed his cap up on his head. "You had it good here in Brooklyn. In with the boss and everything. Then you went and soured things with the second in command and put you in a tough spot." He glanced at Race to see what his reaction was, not wanting to have to start racing after him again, and cleared his throat. "You got told to leave. Not a surprise to anyone with a brain. Mouse would have had to pick Lefty over you simply because it would foul up the ranks if he didn't."

Race snorted. "Mouse has the loyalty of a slug."

"Loyalty's got nothing to do with it. Unless he told you to fleece Lefty and then let you hang for it."

Race scratched his neck. "Naw. That was all me."

"Then you got no one to blame but yourself," Spot said without a hint of sympathy. "Like I was saying, you had to leave. So you go to Manhattan. Not a bad choice. Far enough away that Lefty ain't going to bother you. But then you keep coming to Brooklyn to sell."

Spot knew he was rambling but he couldn't help himself. Race's reasoning was a mystery to him and he wouldn't be happy until it was clear. He sucked on his teeth, then said, "Yeah, I know, you go to Sheepshead, but they got races enough in Manhattan. Not as big, but still races. And if you are so damn set on Sheepshead, then why didn't you move to Queens? It's a hell of a lot closer."

Spot paused, looking up at the sky, but Race just scowled, so he started up again.

"Even little things, like taking both editions when you could just double up on the morning and have the afternoon free. Or walking to Coney Island for lunch when there are plenty of joints that sell hotdogs along the route to the distribution center."

Race hunched his shoulders. "I like what I like. And I don't settle for less."

"Now, that's a right admirable trait, when it don't make you do twice the work for the same result."

"It don't bother me," Race said defensively. "And I don't see how any of it's your business, Spot."

Spot smirked. Everything about Race was his business. It was just a matter of time until Race understood that.

"Look, what I do is what I do. And I don't have to be explaining myself on account of some twerp I don't even like."

"You like me well enough," Spot said confidently. He was fairly sure what Race's reaction to him would have been if Race didn't like him. And since he wasn't sporting any black eyes, Spot knew he had at least tacit approval if nothing more.

Race gave him a smile that said as clear as words that he thought Spot was full of hot air. "Think a lot of yourself, don't you?"

"I know my own worth," Spot replied.

Race tilted his head to the side and widened his eyes slightly as he shook his head. "You aren't planning on making a habit of this, are you? Because I like being on my own."

"Real friendly of you, Racetrack," Spot said with a grin.

Race kicked at a lose cobblestone. "I don't sell as in pairs, Spot. And even if I did, you wouldn't be my choice."

"Good thing that you don't have a say in the matter then, ain't it?"

"I have plenty of say," Race said with a glare.

"I don't see how. If I want to come to Sheepshead, what can you do to stop me?"

"I can soak you."

"You can try."

Race snorted. "I can do more than try."

"Any time you want to test yourself, you go right ahead," Spot offered with an arrogant grin.

Race glanced up the road and said, "Almost there."

"I can see that, thanks," Spot shot back.

"I'm going to get my papes and head back out to Sheepshead. I don't want any company."

"Ain't that nice," Spot said, fingering his collar.

"You made your point, Spot," Race said in what he clearly meant to be a reasonable tone. "The boys will see you coming in with me and word will get back to Lefty."

"That's generally how it works," Spot replied with a laugh.

Race cleared his throat. "So shove off."

Spot smiled. "Not going to happen."

Race's face changed color and for a moment Spot thought that he might yell. Then he took a deep breath and calmly said, "Why not?"

"Because I like you," Spot answered truthfully, wondering when that fact would sink into Race's thick skull.

"What did I do to deserve this?" Race asked dolefully.

"Just got lucky, I guess," Spot said, smile firmly in place.

Race groused. "Lucky's not what I'd call it."

"You're right," Spot said thoughtfully. "Damn lucky, is more like it."

Racetrack shook his head once. "Or just plain damned," he muttered under his breath, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and crossing the street so quickly that Spot was, once again, forced to run after him.

* * *

A.N. Just wanted to thank my wonderful beta, Cymbalism219. Without her this fic would so totally suck. snuggles her beta


	3. You're Not My Friend

You're Not My Friend

_October 31, 1896_

Race was lounging in his seat, half his attention on the game of dominoes he was currently playing and the other focused on whether or not his not-so-subtle prodding would produce any effect. He licked his lips nervously, half hoping that it wouldn't. Race watched as Blink played a tile and frowned. He wasn't going to win this round. He hadn't won yet tonight. And it was all Spot's fault.

Race muttered a curse and studied his tiles, trying to figure out a way to come out ahead. He glanced at the door again and then mental upbraiding himself for doing it. So what if Spot didn't show. It wasn't like Race had invited him or anything. Race scowled. He had been dropping hints about tonight for the past week, and if Spot was too dense to pick up on it, well then that was that.

He played a tile and shook his head, not bothering to watch where Mush put his. _I don't want that bum here anyway, _Race said to himself_. _He sniffed and swiped at his nose with his arm. Jack said something and Blink and Mush laughed. Race shook his head, angry at himself for caring.

Just then he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. His attention was instantly focused on the door. _It's just Kloppman,_ he told himself, _coming to check on us._ He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and then spit it back out, disgusted with himself. He frowned at the door and even the sight of Spot standing in it couldn't bring him out of his black mood.

He licked his lips nervously, wanting to say something but not knowing what. Race wasn't sure what the proper response to Spot's appearance should be. He didn't want Spot to get the wrong idea about how things stood between them. They weren't friends. But if that were true, then why was he so happy to see him?

"Ah, Christ!" Race muttered, glaring at the boy standing in the narrow doorway. All this worrying and carrying on over something as trivial as Spot coming to visit him was stupid.

"What's the matter, Race?" Mush asked as he looked up from his tiles. He followed Race's gaze and blinked. "Who's he?"

Blink glanced at the door over his shoulder. "New boy?"

"Naw," Jack said thoughtfully. "Race's knows him, don't you Race? And Race don't have time for new kids."

Race ignored his companions, choosing instead to give Spot a cool look. He put his tiles face down on the table and said, "It's bad enough I got to spend all day with you; did you have to follow me home?"

Spot smirked and glanced around the room. He sauntered over to the table and stood behind Race, one hand resting on top of a brass-topped cane that Race vaguely remembered seeing before. "Nice setup you got here," he said.

Race sniffed again and decided that Spot was trying to get under his skin. _That's not something he's got the market on, _he thought. "You came all this way and that's all you can say for yourself?"

Spot shrugged and narrowed his eyes, surveying the room once more. Race watched as Spot's expression changed, wondering what that might token. He let his own eyes dart around the room, trying to see it the way Spot would.

"You going to introduce your friend?" Jack asked lazily, studying his dominoes.

"He's not my friend," Race muttered and glanced over his shoulder at Spot, who just shrugged. Race nodded to himself and picked up his tiles, once more struggling to pay attention to the game.

"All right then," Jack said smoothly, "He's not your friend. Are you going to introduce him or what?"

Race blinked stupidly at Jack. He had been so focused on not paying attention to Spot that he had forgotten all about introducing him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "This here is Spot," he said, jerking his head in Spot's direction.

"Conlon," Spot said. "Spot Conlon."

"Nice to meet you, Spot." Jack smiled that half smile of his and Race knew that he was amused. "Any reason why Race here ain't so happy to see you?"

Spot rubbed the side of his neck. "You'd have to ask him."

Jack laid down a domino and gave Race a half smile. "How about it, Race?"

Race kept his eyes glued on his tiles. "He's a bum, Jack."

"You're just sore on account of the fact that I out sold you today." Race could hear the smugness in Spot voice and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw an expression to match it.

Race gave Spot a dirty look. "That's not how I remember it."

"Then your memory is faulty."

Spot hadn't out sold him. They had each had exactly the same amount of papers. Spot had, however, sold his faster than Race for the first time since they had been selling together. Still, the fact remained that they had sold the same amount. Race opened his mouth to point this out, but was cut off by Mush.

"I'm Mush," he said, flashing his trademark smile. "And this is Blink." He pointed at the boy next to him.

"Kid Blink," Blink said and nodded.

"You don't have to make nice with him," Race said frostily. "He's not staying."

"You'd kick me out?" Spot feigned hurt. "And it being a holiday and everything?"

"Halloween ain't a holiday," Race muttered. He wanted to look at Spot again, but forced himself not to. He was already giving Spot too much attention. And if he kept it up, then he might as well admit outright to the other boy that he sort of liked having him around. Race didn't want to give Spot anything else to crow about -- the boy was puffed up enough already.

"Is so," Pie Eater called out from on top of his bunk at the back of the room.

"Who asked you?" Race yelled over his shoulder.

"You sell with Race?" Jack asked, over top of the comments that Race and Pie Eater were exchanging.

Race heard a chair scrape and turned back to the table in time to see Spot settling himself in the chair next to him. He smiled and then frowned, deciding that the best option was to keep his eyes fixed on the game and ignore Spot all together.

"Every day," Spot said, arms crossed over his chest.

"But you ain't friends?"

"You have to like a body to be friends with him," Race said, laying down a tile.

"Friendship usually means that you enjoy the person's company," Spot added.

"What, the pair of you don't enjoy being around each other?" Blink asked his brow wrinkled.

"Of course they do, why else would they sell together?" Mush said, playing a tile.

Jack sniffed. "I can think of a couple reasons."

Race felt the corners of his mouth turn down. "I need a smoke," he said and fingered his pack of cigarettes.

"It's raining outside," Jack said absently.

"How do you know? You haven't been outside since I got here."

"True enough, but Spot Conlon here, he just arrived. And his coat's wet."

Race glanced at Spot. His coat was wet. As was his hair. Race wondered how he hadn't noticed beforehand. "Damn."

"You walked here in the rain?" Blink asked Spot.

Spot shrugged. "Wasn't raining when I set out. It didn't start up till I was more then halfway here. Would have been stupid to walk all the way back when continuing on would get me out of it faster."

"That was almost civil," Race said with mock astonishment. Spot ignored him. Race gave his dominoes a filthy look and glanced around the table. "Why ain't no one going?"

"It's your turn." Jack gave him a thoughtful look.

"What?" Race was startled. He never lost his place in a game.

Jack gave him a knowing look and then glanced at Spot, which made Race scowl. Now Jack would be getting ideas. Race picked a tile at random and placed it on the table. He made a disgusted noise as Mush went out. Mush laughed good-naturedly and Blink slapped him on the back as Jack began to flip the dominoes over and mix the pile.

"Came a long way, did you?" Jack asked Spot, not bothering to look up.

Spot rubbed his fingers together. "Not really."

Race laughed. "Not really? Only from Brooklyn."

"Only a half an hour or so," Spot said blandly. "Not long at all."

"So you walked here from Brooklyn in the rain. All for the sake of seeing someone you ain't friends with?" Jack clarified.

Race looked from Jack to Spot and back again. Spot's face was carefully blank, but his jaw was tight. Jack gave that little half smile of his again and shook his head. Race wondered what it was about the situation that Jack found so damned funny.

"Seems like an awful lot of effort," Jack continued.

"It wasn't," Spot snapped.

Race slugged Spot's shoulder. "Don't talk to Jack like that."

"I talk to you like that all the time."

"Jack's not me."

Spot gave him a look. "Really? Could have fooled me."

"I don't mind," Jack cut through their banter.

Race frowned, more at the interruption than the words. He wasn't used to having someone else break into his conversations with Spot. Race spent almost all of his time with Spot one-on-one. They had a comfortable rhythm to their conversations and it was startling to have it broken.

"Yeah, Jacky-boy don't mind," Spot said with apparent satisfaction.

"Don't call Jack…" Race started but Jack cut him off.

"I said I don't mind, Race. So let it go."

Race scowled. "You done with those tiles or what?" he asked testily.

"Ready to lose again?" Mush asked, picking up a piece.

"Not likely," Race said, determined not to let himself lose another game.

* * *

Race was wrong. Manhattan had a leader. A good one, too. Spot watched as Jack organized his tiles and grinned, happy to know something Race didn't. He shifted his gaze to Race and almost felt like smiling. It was just so much fun to irate him. Across the table the one-eyed kid cleared his throat. Spot gave him a slight smile and watched as the curly haired boy to his right elbowed him and grinned. Mush, that was his name. And Kid something. Wink or maybe blink. Spot let his eyes slide to the side again. Race was frowning slightly and staring intently at his tiles. Spot studied the way his fingers moved from tile to tile and decided that Manhattan wasn't bad at all.

Sure, the house was a little cramped and more run down than Brooklyn's was, but that was to be expected since it was older. And Manhattan. Spot sniffed and wondered if he was going to come down with a chill from that walk in the rain. He twisted his mouth. He should have realized it was going to rain. Not that it would have stopped him from coming. He would have even if the rain had turned to snow.

He wanted to see Manhattan. He wanted to put faces to the names that Race talked about. Race knew everyone he interacted with, and Spot didn't like Race having that over him. So he decided to come and have a look at Race's home himself. And since Race had mentioned that he was going to be spending the evening with the boys tonight, Spot made up his mind to pay them all a visit.

Spot scratched his ear and chuckled at a joke Mush had made, laying down one of his tiles.

Spot liked mysteries. He liked searching for clues and uncovering facts. He liked the way he felt when the answer finally presented itself to him. But you can't solve a puzzle when you don't have all the pieces. These boys, this house, were a part of Race. Spot knew that he would never fully understand Race fully until he understood them as well. Tonight, by watching Race interact with his friends, a few more pieces would be made clear.

That in and of itself was worth the half-hour trek through the rain.

There was a burst of laughter which drew Spot attention away from Race. He turned his head slightly and snorted as he saw Jack steal the hat off of Kid Whatshisname and toss it over his shoulder. Mush leaned across the table and punched Jack's arm. Jack responded with another carefree laugh.

Jack. Jacky-boy. He wasn't at all what Spot had expected. Race's stories tended to paint him as scamp, some kid with bright eyes and an uncanny ability to get out of trouble. Not anyone with real substance to 'em. Spot wondered if that was really how Race saw him. Jack was much more then that. He was a leader, whether he was acknowledged as one or not. It was clear as day. Which meant that Race had either overlooked that part of Jack's nature or that he wasn't telling Spot as much as Spot thought he was with those stories of his.

Spot pushed his cap back on his head and scowled. He didn't like to think that Race was keeping things from him. Not that it surprised him that Race had, come to think of it.

"I told you I was going to win," Mush crowed, setting down his final piece.

"Now I definitely need a smoke," Race grumbled from Spot's side.

"Oh, but you don't want to get your toes wet, now do you, Race?" Spot teased.

Race pushed back his chair, face dark. "Getting a bucket of ice water dumped on my head is better than sitting next to you," he said as he stood. "And don't follow me out!"

Spot widened his eyes with feigned innocence, "I wouldn't dream of it." Race curled his lip at him and Spot chuckled.

"You certainly seem to have his number," Jack leaned back in his chair casually, but Spot caught his meaning.

Spot shrugged. Blink and Mush exchanged a glance and then the two stood. Without one word of explanation, they walked away from the table to sit with a group of boys in a different section of the room. Far enough away not to hear anything that Spot and Jack might say, Spot noted.

Spot smirked. Jacky-boy was the leader, all right.

"Race is my friend," Jack stated, examining his nails. Spot said nothing, waiting for Jack to continue. "I don't know you, Spot Conlon. I don't know if I like you or not. But I do know Race. I like Race. And I know that if he disliked you as much as he says he does, you wouldn't be sitting here pretty as you please."

Spot nodded.

Jack touched one of the discarded dominoes, "So I think I'll just let you two," he made a vague hand motion, "for now." He flipped the tiles over and mixed them before glancing at Spot and then looking back down at the tiles.

Spot gave him an amused look. "For now?" he repeated as he began to draw from the pile.

Jack nodded and silently began to draw as well. When he had seven in front of him, Jack picked up a final tile and turned it in his fingers. "You don't want that to change." He placed the tile between them and looked at Spot expectantly.

"What, you going to fight Race's battles for him?" Spot glanced at his tiles and quickly picked one and set it in place.

"No," Jack started, laying down a five-four.

"Good," Spot cut in, placing his double five crosswise almost as soon as Jack's hand moved away.

"Race is more than able to handle himself," Jack finished, ignoring Spot's comment. He studied his hand and then picked a tile and placed with exaggerated care.

Spot raised his eyebrows. "I hadn't heard that," he said, but as the words left his mouth he recalled Mouse mentioning that Race could hold his own in a fight.

"But I can make life mighty unpleasant for you, if I wanted to." Again Jack ignored Spot's interruption. "And you don't want me to."

Spot gave him a definite stare and slapped a tile down. "I live in Brooklyn. You'd have to have an awful lot of pull to do anything to me there."

Jack gave him a knowing look. "You think I ain't got that pull, go ahead, try me." He tapped a tile with his forefinger before playing it.

Spot smiled. Jack may not know if he liked him yet, but Spot definitely liked Jack -- he was cocky, and Spot respected that in a person. He picked up a tile and turned in slowly in his hands. Mirroring Jack's tone as well as his action, Spot said, "Race is a Brooklyn boy."

Jack snorted. "Ain't any more."

"What, a few months in Manhattan and all of a sudden he is Manhattan born and bred?"

"Race chose Manhattan," Jack pointed out. "And he don't regret that choice."

"But Brooklyn is home."

"Not to Race." Jack tapped the table with his fingers. "This is home." He looked down at the few remaining tiles and shook his head. "Pass."

Spot studied his own tiles as well as the layout. "For now," he said.

"Forever," Jack replied. "You gonna make your move or what?"

Spot shook his head once, acknowledging that the game was blocked.

* * *

Race ground out his cigarette and headed back inside, happy to get out of the damp night. He sniffed as he climbed the stairs, wondering how Spot was doing without him there to run interference. He pushed open the door and stepped through, blinking at the brighter light.

He scanned the room and saw that Jack and Spot were alone at the table, talking quietly as they played a game of dominoes. All right by him. Race walked towards the corner that Blink and Mush were in, still studying the pair at the table.

Jack said something which caused Spot to tip his head back in laughter, and Race was amazed to see a smile on his face when he stopped. Not the I'm-better-than-you-and-I-know-it smile Spot normally wore, but an honest-to-God smile. Race shook his head fondly. Figured those two would like each other. Arrogant bastards, the pair of 'em.

Race sniffed again and pulled up an empty crate alongside Skittery, who nodded at him. Race nodded back and sat. He tugged his cap off his head and wadded it up, shoving it halfway into his pocket as he ran a hand through his hair.

Mush leaned forward with a grin and said, "So that's Spot."

"Yeah, that's him," Race said, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them up.

"He's not bad," Mush said, leaning against Blink.

Blink jostled Mush's shoulders. "You don't think anyone's bad," Blink said with mock exasperation.

"I do too," Mush protested.

Race laughed. "Oh really? Name one."

Mush smiled. "That's easy, the Delancey brothers."

"He's got you there, Race." Blink grinned.

Mush glanced over at Spot. "He's decent enough, and Jack likes him."

"I thought he'd be something else entirely, the way you go on about him," Blink said.

"Blink, you should know better then to listen to anything Race says," Skittery said, giving Blink a friendly shove.

Race made a face. "What do you know?"

"More than you," Skittery answered.

Race leaned over and punched his shoulder. "Seems Spot's not the only bum here tonight."

"You sure spend a lot of time with him, for someone you supposedly can't stand," Skittery replied.

"Not by choice." Race rejoined. "Sorta the way things are with you, Skitts."

"How many times do I got to tell you, the name is Skittery. Not Skitts, or Skitt or Skitter. Skittery."

"Sure it is, Skitts."

Race heard a chuckle and looked over his shoulder. Spot and Jack were standing a little way behind him and both had obviously heard his comment.

Spot smirked. "Nice to know I'm not the only one you unleash that tongue of yours on."

"What? You think you're special?"

"Hey Race, it still raining?" Jack asked, once again cutting through their banter.

"Naw, nothing more then a drizzle. Why?"

"Spot here," Jack clapped Spot on the back, "has never had the pleasure of seeing Medda perform."

"So?"

"So, I want to take him."

"What, tonight?"

"No, next Thursday," Jack said with an expressive roll of his eyes.

"I thought we decided against that already," Race stalled, not sure how he felt about how easily Jack and Spot took to each other.

"You and Jack decided against it," Blink said, jumping up from his seat. "I said I wanted to go."

"Tell people when you are going to do something like that," Mush grumbled as he rubbed his shoulder where Blink had accidentally hit it.

"Don't be such a girl," Blink said dismissively. "Medda's sure to have something special on tonight, seeing as how it is a holiday and everything. Remember last year? She handed out masks and had a whole number done in costume. And the apples, do you remember the apples?"

"I wasn't here last year," Race pointed out.

Jack cleared his throat. "So, Medda's it is, then."

Race glowered at Spot then appealed to Jack. "You mean that I gotta sit next to that bum and have his sour puss spoil my enjoyment of the evening?"

"Seems like it," Jack agreed.

"You don't have to go," Skittery put in.

"And, what, stay here on my lonesome with the babies? I'd rather be stuck with Spot."

"Careful there, Race. Any more of those pretty words and I won't be able to contain myself." Spot said, slinging his arm around Race's shoulders.

Race rolled his eyes but didn't move away. "Shut up, Spot," he affectionately.


	4. Why Are You Still Here?

Why Are You Still Here

_January 19, 1897_

Race groaned as he heard Kloppman mounting the stairs, yelling at everyone to get up. It couldn't be morning yet. He had only closed his eyes a second ago. He pulled the pillow over his head and moaned again when Kloppman slammed his cane into the bunk and yanked the pillow away from Race's face.

_I am never drinking that much again as long as I live,_ Race thought to himself, wincing at the bright light of the room.

He rolled out of bed and squinted at the boy sleeping on the bunk next to him. "What are you still doing here?" he muttered before dragging himself off to the washroom. He bit back a curse as he splashed his face with icy water and began to scrub away the dirt of the day before. He shivered as drops of water ran down his neck and reached for the towel, patting his face dry before wrapping it around his neck and blinking at his puffy eyed reflection.

"Definitely not drinking like that again," he mumbled as he started to cover his cheeks with shaving lather.

Race yawned widely and pulled out his razor, flipping it open with long practiced ease. He pulled it down and felt the sharp edge of it scrape against his skin. He rinsed it off and brought it back up, only to jerk it away to keep from slicing his face open when Crutchy's crutch hit his leg accidentally.

"Watch it," he snapped.

"Sorry, Race," Crutchy said with his lopsided grin.

"Don't worry about it," Race said, turning back towards the mirror and reining in his urge to cuss. It wasn't Crutchy's fault his head felt like it was splitting open.

When he finished shaving he used the towel to wipe his face and walked back to his bunk. He hunted around in his laundry bag, pulled out his favorite pair of britches and stepped into them, tugging the suspenders up over his shoulders. Then he bent back to the bag and looked for his finest shirt, hoping that looking his best would make up for his aching head while selling today.

"I know it's here somewhere," he muttered to himself and glared down at his laundry bag. Deciding he must of have overlooked it, he pulled the bag open as wide as it would go and sifted through the contents again. When he couldn't find it the second time, Race upended the bag over his bed, spreading the clothes out across his bunk.

"All right, real funny guys," he said, glowering around the room.

Skittery glanced up from where he was tying his boots. "What's funny?"

"My shirt. Where is it?"

Skittery shrugged. "How should I know?"

Race rolled his eyes and yelled, "Jack," so loud that his head hurt.

Across the room Jack visibly winced. "What," he called back while he tucked in his shirt.

"Where is it?"

Jack put a hand to his head, "Where is what?"

"My shirt. My good shirt. The white one with little blue pinstripes and matching buttons."

Jack pulled his bandana off of his bunk and shrugged. "In your bag, with the rest of your stuff."

"It's not there," Race said angrily, starting towards him. "So what did you do with it?"

Jack gave him a blank look as he tied his bandana in place. "Why would I do anything with it?"

"Come on, you always pull one over on me on my birthday."

"Yesterday was your birthday, Race," Jack pointed out. "And I got you good. Or did you forget?" he asked with a grin and settled his hat on his head.

"Yeah, well it wasn't that impressive," Race mumbled, remembering for the first time that Jack had gotten him yesterday.

Jack gave him a wicked smile. "Yes it was."

He was right, damn him. It had been a good one.

Jack had told Race that he had heard about a game that was going to be happening in Sweeny's backroom. Real professional, Jack had said, not for anyone who didn't know his stuff. Race had been counting his winnings from the moment Jack opened his mouth and headed off for Sweeny's without delay, never mind that it was in Midtown, or the fact that it was raining out.

Jack was right, there had been a game going there. But it wasn't any sort of game that Race was interested in playing. He took one look at the grey-haired grannies and their steel cribbage boards and he went right back out into the rain.

The rain had stopped when he was halfway home and but he was still dripping water when he reached the bunk room. He hadn't said a word, just glared. Boots had pointed towards the roof and Race had thundered up the stairs. Sitting on the top step had been a small keg of beer and a note from Jack, telling him not to be so gullible in the future.

Race scowled. "If you didn't take it then where did it…" he trailed off abruptly as the shirt in question walked in through the door. "That's my shirt!" Race yelled as he crossed the room to jab a finger into Spot's chest.

"So?" Spot said with a smirk.

"So, why the hell are you wearing it?" Race snapped.

"It looks better on me," Spot answered with a shrug.

"But it's mine!" Race said, feeling foolish even as he said it.

"I needed a shirt." Spot fingered the buttons on the one he was wearing. "You spilled beer all over mine. And a fella ought to replace something he ruins."

"A little beer ain't enough to make a fuss over."

"I didn't make a fuss," Spot said coolly. "I just took what was rightfully mine."

"You want a shirt, fine." Race snatched up a pale blue shirt with a frayed collar and two missing buttons. "There you go."

"I kind of like the one I've got on," Spot replied and bent to pull on his shoes.

"That's my best shirt," Race said, shoving Spot so that he almost toppled over.

Spot did a little hop step to keep his balance and grinned up at Race. "'Course it is. What, you think I'd take anything less than the best?"

Race crossed his arms and gave Spot a hard look. "I wanted to wear that today."

"That's just too bad."

"Take it off," Race said between clenched teeth.

Spot straightened, eyes narrowing. "Make me," he said with a cocky laugh.

Race glared at him, wanting to punch him but not wanting to get into trouble with Kloppman. "This ain't over," he said darkly as he turned back towards his bunk.

"It is as far as I am concerned," Spot called out.

"Don't push me, Spot," Race all but spat over his shoulder while he pulled his second best shirt on and buttoned it up.

"But it's so much fun," Spot said, his breath hot on Race's neck.

Race twisted around and shoved at Spot. "Get out of my face," he muttered. Spot quirked an eyebrow at him and Race reluctantly backed up a step. He fixed Spot with a sharp look. "Why are you even here?"

"It was late and I didn't feel like walking home," Spot answered with a smug smile, moving so that he was once more looming over Race.

"It wasn't that late," Race tucked his shirt into his britches and started to push his belongings back inside of his laundry bag, ignoring the prickling feeling being this close to Spot was giving him.

"So maybe it wasn't." Spot leaned against the bunk and his hip grazed against Race. Race glared at him and moved slightly away as he continued what he was doing.

"Then why did you stay?" Race pressed.

Spot lifted one shoulder lazily. "I was soused. I wasn't walking clear to Brooklyn when there was a perfectly good bed right here."

Race had to agree that Spot had a point, but that didn't stop him from saying, "You were in a far better condition than I was."

"That's not saying much," Spot scoffed. "You couldn't even make it down the stairs without help."

Race ignored Spot's comment as he tied his bag closed and tossed it under his bunk. He bent over and pulled his cap from between the slats, slapping it onto his head. "And what were you doing in that bunk?" he asked, pointing at the bed that Spot had spent the night in.

"Sleeping," Spot said slowly as if talking to someone very young or very stupid. "What did you think I was doing?"

Race sighed. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"How do you know what I know?"

Race put a hand to his head and closed his eyes. "It's too early in the morning to deal with you," he grumbled.

"Oh, does someone's head hurt from drinking too much last night?" Spot mocked.

"Shove off," Race muttered.

"Not my fault if you can't handle your drink."

"I said shove off!"

"Don't think I will."

Race saw Snipeshooter coming in from the washroom and his eyes darted back to the bunk Spot had been in this morning. "Hey, Snipeshooter, where did you sleep last night?" he called out.

"Over by Boots," Snipeshooter replied. "Why?"

"You let this lug take your bunk?"

"Let?" Snipeshooter laughed, "I didn't let him do nothing."

"You could have said something, I would have made him give you your bunk."

"Sure you would have. Right after you threw up on him, right?"

Race glared at him. "Ah, why do I even bother with you, you little sneak thief."

Snipeshooter made a rude hand gesture and Spot laughed. Race gave him a long look. "If I had known you would be this much of a hassle I wouldn't have asked you to come along last night."

"Too bad you can't change the past, now ain't it?" Spot said casually and leaned against the bunk.

"Are you two going to snipe at each other all day or what?" Jack asked as he pushed past them.

"Come on, or there will be no time to get breakfast before the papes are ready," Mush said, patting Race on the back.

Race nodded. "Well, you heard him," he said to Spot. "Get a move on. I'm not missing breakfast on account of you."

* * *

Spot ambled lazily after the boys, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He kept his mouth shut and took in all that was happening around him. Blink and Mush were near the front of the pack, comparing stories about girls. To the right of him, Boots and Skittery were talking softly about the best way to sell and a little to the left and in front of him, Race, Jack and Crutchy were loudly bemoaning the fact that it had started to snow.

He smiled to himself, comfortable in the midst of the group. He let himself drift closer to Race, listening intently to the boys' litany of complaints. He sped up and nudged Jack aside so that he was walking side-by-side with Race. Race gave him a cold look, then turned towards Crutchy and inquired about something Spot wasn't interested in.

Apparently Race was still attempting to ignore him. Just like he had during breakfast. Spot frowned then took his right hand out of his pocket, snatching Race's hat off. Race spun on his heel and slapped Spot's cheek, grabbing at his hat while Spot was distracted.

"What're you, a girl?" Spot jeered, working his jaw.

Race sniffed and went right on talking to Crutchy like nothing had happened.

Jack laughed and Spot looked at him, frowning slightly. Jack lifted one shoulder and inclined his head. "Give him a little while, he'll get over it," he advised.

Spot snorted. "He hits like a girl."

Jack grinned. "And you complain like one."

Spot heard a suppressed laugh and smirked, knowing that Race was listening for all he pretended not to be. "That's what I like about you, Jacky-boy. You never keep things close to your chest."

"What's the point?" Jack said. "I think something, I say it. Keeps things simple."

"Keeps you in trouble, more like," Race quipped.

Spot kept his head turned towards Jack. "So what's your plan for the day?"

Jack shrugged. "Let me get a look at the headlines then I'll tell you."

"Not likely to be much to look at."

Jack smiled. "There'll be something. There's always something."

"And when you're done with it, that something won't at all resemble what's printed," Race added, jostling against Spot.

"Watch it," Spot said but didn't bother to look at him.

"You watch it," Race said with another shove.

"Don't muss up my coat," Spot rejoined and flicked the snow off of his shoulders. "I don't want to wrinkle my shirt."

"That's my shirt, you no good bum."

"And a nice one at that," Spot said, putting his hands back into his pockets and wishing that he had a scarf like the one Crutchy had wrapped around his neck.

"My best, so you'd better not muck it up, Spot."

"I'm improving it just by wearing it," Spot replied, smirking.

"It's too cold to be auguring," Crutchy said in a clear attempt to end the conversation.

"You gonna be all right today, Crutchy?" Jack's concern was obvious.

"I'll be fine. Nothing like a little snow to make a gimp like me look down on his luck."

Jack pressed his lips together. "You can come along with me, if you'd like."

"I don't take charity," Crutchy said sharply. Spot nodded to himself at the hard edge in the boy's voice. Crutchy might have a bum leg, but he wasn't expecting any hand outs and Spot respected that.

"Ah, it ain't charity. You'd be doing me a favor, what with your limp and all."

"How about you do me a favor, Spot, and sell somewhere else today," Race said.

Spot glanced over his shoulder at him. "I might at that," he said.

Race gave him a blank look and pursed his lips.

"That's what I thought," Spot said, grinning broadly.

"What? I didn't say anything." Race gave him a dirty look and tugged at the collar of his coat.

"Didn't have to, it was all over your face."

Race pulled his coat tight against his body and didn't reply. Spot gave him a slight nod, and then turned back towards Jack his smile shifting to a smirk.

"What are you so smug about?" Jack asked, eyes narrowing.

Spot chuckled. "Your boy Race all but admitted he'd miss me if I wasn't around."

"I did not!"

"Did too."

"Does it matter?" Jack asked.

"Yes," Spot and Race said at the same time.

Crutchy laughed. "You boys are better then a minstrel show."

"Glad you find it so amusing," Spot said wryly.

"Can it, you two," Jack said, his breath coming out in little puffs.

Spot hunched his shoulders as a strong wind buffeted him and fought the urge to say something pithy to Jack. He counted slowly to fifty and then said, "How far away is your distribution center?"

"Not much farther," Crutchy said, wheezing slightly.

"Are we going too fast for you?" Jack asked, concern once more etched on his face.

Crutchy flushed. "I'd say something if you were," he said crossly.

Spot shivered and thought longingly of the warm cup of coffee that had been his breakfast. He didn't even need to drink it, just hold the damned thing in his hands and breathe in all that heat. Christ, crossing the bridge was going to be hell today.

"Race, you ain't really going to Sheepshead, are you?" Jack asked.

Race lifted his shoulders. "Why wouldn't I?"

"If it's snowing there won't be much of a crowd. Might even cancel the races all together, if it gets bad enough."

Race frowned. "I know that, Jack. But where else would I go? I don't do so hot out on the streets."

"Ain't it lucky you have me around, then?" Spot said, wondering why Race didn't sell on the streets. Most newsies started out there and it would only make since that Race had too. But then, Race wasn't most newsies.

"What do you mean?"

"I happened to be good on the streets, Racetrack. And I know a nice comfy spot where the wind don't blow and the snow won't fall on you."

"In Brooklyn, right?"

"Where else?"

"Not interested."

"Ah, come on. Lefty's not going to be after you on a day like this," Spot said derisively.

"_Not_ interested," Race insisted.

"Give it a try," Jack said as they turned the corner.

"I told you how I feel about selling in Brooklyn," Race said with a pointed look at Jack.

"You sell in Brooklyn every day," Jack replied.

"Sheepshead is not Brooklyn," Race answered with a scowl. He and Jack locked eyes again, communicating without saying a word.

Spot's eyes narrowed as he studied Jack's reaction to both Race's comment and his expression. Jack's mouth tightened and he nodded, but refused to meet Spot's gaze. Something was going on here and Spot didn't know what it was.

He was the one who spent all day with Race, and yet he had no idea what the difference between Brooklyn and Sheepshead was. Of course, he'd tried to figure it out, but so far Race had slipped through his net. Sheepshead mattered to Race and Spot was fairly confident that Jack knew why. Which rubbed Spot the wrong way. He didn't like Race was telling Jack things he wasn't telling Spot. Spot ran his tongue across his teeth and glowered at Jack.

"You got somewheres better to sell?" Jack said softly after a long pause.

Race frowned. "No."

"Then go with Spot. He'll make sure nothing happens to you, won't you Spot?"

"That I will," Spot said with a nod. "What's one day, Race? And you won't be dragging those papes through the snow."

"I do just fine at Sheepshead, with or without the snow," Race protested, but Spot could tell he was weakening.

"What, you afraid of Lefty and his crew?" Spot said, confident in the knowledge that Race would take offense. Which he did.

"I ain't afraid of that bum," Race sneered.

"Then you'll stop acting like a baby and come on."

Race sighed. "Fine, I'll go with you, since you're making such a fuss over it. But I don't want anyone thinking they can move in on my turf."

"Because everyone is going to jump at the chance to walk three extra hours every day," Spot said snidely.

"You did," Race pointed out.

"With how fast those papes go? You bet I did."

"My point exactly."

"Race, I don't care how many papes I can sell, I ain't never walking to Sheepshead to do it," Jack said evenly. "And neither will any other newsie in his right mind."

"You saying I'm not in my right mind?" Race's tone was sour.

Tipping his head back, Jack laughed. "In a word, yes. You and Spot Conlon. Mad as they come."

"Watch it, Jacky-boy," Spot said affectionately shoving Jack's shoulder.

Jack shoved him back. "Watch it yourself."

"Can it, you two," Race chided with a grin.

Jack grinned back at him. "That's my line."

"God, it's cold." Spot blew on his hands.

"No colder than it was yesterday," Boots said, joining their conversation.

"It wasn't snowing yesterday," Crutchy pointed out.

"But the wind was blowing harder," Boots said with a shrug.

"Says you," Crutchy scoffed, then looked up, his face brightening. "There's the center and don't it look like a dream."

"A bad one, maybe," Jack said, lengthening his stride.

Crutchy hurried to catch up to him and Spot deliberately slowed his pace. He hadn't known about the plan to buy Race a keg of beer, so he had gotten Race a small gift of his own. Nothing as expensive as last night's offering, which was why he hadn't given it to him then, but a gift nonetheless.

Spot cleared his throat and ventured, "How's it feel being seventeen?"

Race shrugged. "No different from sixteen."

"Hasn't improved your mood any, that's for sure," Spot said with a grin, and he stopped walking.

"I'd be in a damn sight better one if you weren't prancing around in my best shirt," Race groused. He took a step and then paused, looking at Spot expectantly.

Spot rolled his eyes. "No one would be able to see it anyway, Race. Not with your coat buttoned up to your neck and your cap pulled down around your ears."

"Just having it on would be enough," Race said kicking at a pile of snow. "Why ain't we walking?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"You already were."

Spot caught his lip between his teeth and then spit it back out, disgusted at himself for being so nervous. He lifted his chin, shoved his hand in his pocket, then pulled out the crudely wrapped package and shoved it at Race. "Take it."

"What's this?" Race looked at him with surprise.

"Do you want it or not?" Spot started to take it back. Race's hand shot out and he snatched the package out of Spot's hand. He tore at the wrapping and Spot shook his head at the excitement on Race's face. "It's nothing fancy, so don't get your hopes up," he said with forced casualness.

Race peered down at the gift for so long that Spot couldn't help shifting his weight. He kept silent though, determined not to be the first to break the silence. It wasn't much of a present. Spot didn't have much money to spare, and so he had done what any street kid would do: he improvised.

He had bought some scrap leather cheap off of a boot maker and spent more time than he cared to admit working the tough strips into something he wasn't ashamed to give to the only boy he could reasonably call his friend. Once he had the shape right, Spot had added one more detail, a rough outline of a jockey bent low over the back of his horse.

Race still hadn't said something and Spot clenched his hands, anger creeping through him. He had spent a lot of time and effort on the damned thing. Spot cleared his throat, ready to say something biting, but the words never came.

Race reached out and clasped Spot's shoulder with his free hand, a stupid grin plastered on his face. "My own dice cup," he said with glee.

Spot let his lips twitch up. "What sort of a gambler are you without one, eh?"

"It's got a pony and everything." Race let go of Spot's shoulder, and held the cup up in the light.

"I know that," Spot replied dryly. "Seeing as how I made it."

"You made it?" Race sounded impressed and Spot gave him a cocky grin.

"You want something done right, you do it yourself." Spot took the cup from Race's hand and flipped it over. "It's got my mark." He pointed at the slightly lopsided circle with _S.C. '97_ etched in the middle.

Race flashed him a wide grin and then turned on his heel and ran towards the center, calling out to the boys already in line. "Look at this, would you," he crowed, holding the cup above his head. "A dice cup, just like the professionals have!"

Spot shook his head and he slowly followed Race. He slipped his right hand between the buttons on his coat, fingering the soft fabric of Race's shirt, and wondered what Race would do when he realized he wasn't getting his favorite shirt back.


	5. What's In A Name

What's in a name?

_May 30, 1897_

Spot smiled to himself as he rounded the corner and saw Race sitting on a bench underneath an elm. He paused, pulling his hat off to fan himself, and watched as Race ran a finger along his bottom lip, his face intent as he studied the paper in his hands. Spot slapped his hat back in place, shoved his hands into his pockets and resumed walking. He heard the bell ring to announce the beginning of a race and lengthened his stride.

"You done selling yet?" Spot asked as he came to stand beside Race, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He glanced around, taking in the familiar sights and sounds. It surprised him to think that he had been selling here for less than a year. It seemed much longer than that.

Race looked up from the paper he was reading and nodded. "Just finished."

"What's that then?" Spot asked, nodding at the paper.

"My copy. You know I always keep one back."

"Yeah. Stupid, if you ask me."

"Good thing I didn't then, ain't it?"

"What's the point of keeping it? Don't you got better things to do in your free time than pour over the papes you sell?"

"I don't 'pour over' it."

"Then why keep it?"

Race snapped the paper indignantly. "I like to look for the patterns."

"Patterns?"

"That's what I said," Race replied absently, eyes on the page in front of him.

"You going to explain what you mean by that?"

"It's complicated."

"I've a good mind, I can figure it out."

Race looked up at him. "I keep track of things, you see. For the ponies." He glanced around to make sure no one was in ear shot. "Helps me pick them," he said with a wink.

Spot gave him an amused look and shook his head.

"What?" Race asked, frowning.

Spot leaned against the wall and examined his nails, ignoring Race.

"What?" Race demanded again, his tone a little more belligerent.

"I didn't say anything," Spot still studied his hands.

"You didn't have to." Race was clearly perturbed. He folded his paper and tucked it under his arm.

Spot smirked, enjoying the way Race's jaw was tightening. After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke. "I respect you, Race."

"What the hell does that mean?" Race exploded.

Spot chuckled. "Is that any way to respond to a compliment?"

Race gave him a suspicious look. "You respect me?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?" Spot put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his favorite shooter, smiling at the way the cloudy green glass shone in the light. "You're the best card shark I've ever seen."

"Thank you," Race said hesitantly.

"You're a dab hand at craps. I wouldn't place a bet against you if my life depended on it."

"Thank you," Race's voice was confident now.

Spot grinned at him and slid the marble back in his pocket. "But you're lousy at the ponies."

Race scowled. "Hardly."

Spot rubbed his hands together. "You couldn't pick a winner to save your life, Race."

Race snorted. "I'm a natural."

"A natural loser."

"Ah, to hell with you," Race said with a frown. "Sure, I pick a flop every now and then, just like everyone else, but for the most part I come out ahead."

"No, you don't."

"What do you mean I don't?" Race squinted up at Spot.

Spot sighed. "How many times have you won this month, Race?"

Race tapped his middle finger against his chin and sucked on his lower lip while he thought. "Three times," he said softly.

"What's that?"

"Three times," he said louder.

"And how many bets have you placed?" Race glowered at Spot, not bothering to answer. Spot gave him a knowing look. "Well, when you bet you do it on last three races of the day and you try and bet every day. So that would put your win to loss ratio at…"

"All right, you made your point," Race interrupted. "It's my money. I can do whatever I want."

Spot took his cap off and began to fan himself with it, "That you can."

"Damned right, I can."

Spot paused in his fanning and raised his eyebrows. "But let's just say you don't today."

Race pulled a face. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I'm sick of watching you gamble away what little money you have."

"You sound like my mother," Race groused.

"Good. Then maybe you'll listen to me."

"Shove off," Race said, opening his paper again.

Spot reached out, pulled the paper from Race's hands, and crumpled it up into a ball. He sniffed and then dropped it on the ground in front of him. "I've got a better idea."

Race jumped to his feet. "Hey! That was my pape!"

"Still is," Spot said as he slapped his cap back on his head.

"I wasn't done with it yet." Race stooped to pick up the paper.

Spot stepped on it. "Yes, you were."

Race straightened up, hands clenched at his sides. "Get off my pape, Spot."

"It's too hot to fight," Spot said reasonably.

Race glanced down at the paper and sighed.

"Atta boy," Spot encouraged. "Come on, you'll like what I've got in mind."

"And that would be?"

"You'll see."

Spot listened to Race mutter and smiled, happy to have irked him. He strutted towards the front gate, hands shoved deep in his pockets, deliberately slowing his pace because he knew it would drive Race mad. A sharply dressed girl walked by, parasol held at a jaunty angle, and he let out a low whistle.

She glanced at him and he nodded, smiling as her eyes widened. She blushed prettily, but she didn't drop her eyes. Spot gave her an appreciative look and opened his mouth to say something, but her chaperon chose that moment to step between them, glaring at Spot like he'd managed to corrupt her with just the one look.

"Did you see that one?" Spot asked Race as the girl was bustled out of sight. Race grunted in reply. "Ain't you refined," Spot said, tilting his cap forward and glancing at Race out of the corner of his eye.

"Can't you walk any faster?" Race asked, clearly irritated.

"In this heat?"

"What, are you going to faint?"

Spot ignored the comment, pausing to touch his cap at a passing copper.

"Do you even know where we are going?" Race asked after a moment.

"Sure I do." Spot turned to his right and ambled along.

"How about you tell me where it is and I can meet you there?"

Spot gave Race a wide grin. "How about I don't."

Race rolled his eyes. "I could have collected on that first bet by now," he muttered. "I had a good tip on Reputation."

Spot snorted. "You'd be out five cents, you mean."

"Says you."

"I'm right and you know it. That's why you are walking with me. So quit all your bellyaching."

"I'm regretting that decision with every step we take," Race said darkly. He pulled a cigar butt out of his breast pocket and clamped it firmly between his teeth.

"Need a light?" Spot asked.

"No." Race removed a box from his pocket and took out a wooden match. Flicking the head of it with his nail, he watched as the tip burst into flame. Race sucked on the end of his cigar and grinned.

"That's a good way to burn your fingers," Spot observed.

Race waved the match until it went out and then dropped it. He blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Maybe for you it is."

"Blow that somewhere else," Spot said, waving away the smoke.

"You ain't got no taste," Race said with a smirk.

"Sure I do. And I've got a nose to go with it. As well as the good sense to know that anything that smells as foul as that cigar doesn't belong in your mouth."

Race jabbed at Spot's side. "You got to complain about everything or what?"

"Here's an idea, how about you stop wasting your money on those damn fool horses and use it to buy yourself something that doesn't smell like it came out of a cesspool." Spot jabbed back.

"Here's a better idea, how about you keep your opinions to yourself."

"If I do that then how are you going to benefit from them?" Spot asked with a smirk.

"Somehow I'll manage to get by on my own, thanks."

Spot shook his head at Race but kept his thoughts to himself. Race was on edge enough as it was, and Spot didn't want to risk having the other boy storm off in a huff. He dodged around a group of men who were lounging outside of a pub, their eyes red rimmed, soused already and it wasn't even evening yet.

Spot swatted at a fly that was buzzing by his ear and walked a little faster. It was hot and the sooner they got to their destination the better. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled the damp material away from his neck, wishing he could take it off and be done with it.

"It's not that hot," Race said, watching him.

"The hell it isn't."

"Come summer you'll be begging for it to be this cool," Race said with a shrug.

Spot frowned. "Well, it ain't summer yet, and I'll be damned if it ain't as bad as if it were."

"What are we doing out here, anyway?" Race asked with a quick look around.

Spot followed Race's gaze, seeing it through his friend's eyes. The area surrounding Brooklyn's docks wasn't exactly what a fellow would call pleasant, what with the streets near to overflowing with pubs and whorehouses, both full to the brim with sailors just begging to be parted from their money.

"Walking."

"Ha, ha. Real funny, Spot."

Spot gave Race a quick grin. "I thought so."

Race rolled his eyes.

"Keep doing that and they'll fall right out," Spot said agreeably.

Race gave him a long suffering look. "Why are you taking me to the docks, Spot?"

"It's hot."

"So?"

"Do I have to explain everything to you?"

"Apparently."

"The docks are on the water, right?"

"That's what makes 'em docks," Race said with a grin.

"Right. And the water, well it's nice and cold, ain't it?"

"Tell me something I don't know."

"That would take too long," Spot muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing," Spot said, smugly. "Like I said, the water's cold. So I was thinking a nice dip in all that cold water would be a might refreshing right about now."

"You want to swim?"

"Clearly."

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"Where would the fun be in that?"

Race pulled off his hat and fanned himself with it. "Pussyfooting around a thing is your idea of fun, is it?'

"It beats watching you lose at the races."

"Why you do stick around then?" Race asked sourly.

Spot grinned at the look on Race's face and stated candidly, "Because it gives me something to laugh at."

Race made a face. "So what did you have to drag me away from it for?"

"Not in the mood today."

"Well, I was."

Spot slowed his pace again. "What?"

"In the mood."

"To lose?"

"No," Race said with a frown. "To watch the races."

"You do that every day."

"Because I like it."

Spot rubbed his nose, "Most people don't like losing, Race."

"Neither do I."

"Could have fooled me."

"I don't always lose, Spot," Race said through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, I know. You already told me all about your three wins this month."

"So I've had a rough month," Race said, hunching his shoulders. "Everyone has them now and again."

Spot took a deep breath and didn't say anything. He walked to the edge of a trash strewed ramp that lead down to what was clearly an abandoned dock and looked around. He cleared his throat and nodded. "This way, then," he said when Race looked at him. Without another word he led Race out onto his dock.

* * *

Race picked his was through mounds of broken bottles, old food wrappings and busted crates. "This place is a trash can," he said to Spot's back. "You drag me from my afternoon races and for what? To show me the world's dirtiest dock?"

"Got a problem there, Race?"

"Just questioning your taste again."

"It's been a while since I've been here," Spot said, as if that answered everything.

"And that matters why?"

Spot shoved aside a pile of rotting crates and stepped onto the pier. "It wasn't this bad before."

"It's an abandoned dock, Spot. Of course it's filthy."

Spot didn't say anything as he walked across the wooden slats. He stopped about halfway down and just stood there, shoulders hunched as if trying to escape a harsh wind. Race studied his back, trying to make sense of his silence and un-Spot-like behavior.

"You all right?" he finally asked.

"Yeah," Spot said, but his voice lacked its usual confidence.

Race narrowed his eyes. "You don't sound like you're all right."

"I said I was," Spot's tone was hard, and Race let the subject drop as he crossed the pier to join him.

"So, why did you bring me here?"

Spot pulled off his cap and stuffed it in his pocket, then started to unbutton his shirt. "I already told you, to swim."

Race kicked at a broken bottle and said, "To swim."

"You don't sound too thrilled, Race," Spot said as he pulled his shirt from his britches.

"Swimming," Race let out a breath. "Not exactly my idea of a good time."

"Well, what else is there to do out here?" Spot asked, pushing down his suspenders.

"We could always head back for the track."

"I'm going swimming. You can do whatever you want."

"Swimming," Race said again in a disgusted voice and started to get undressed. He toed out of his shoes and stuffed his thick grey socks into the tops on them. Then he stripped off his shirt and britches, making sure to fold both neatly before setting them on an overturned crate. He took off his undershirt and added it to the pile. Standing in just his smalls he looked out over the river and sighed.

"You going to stand there all day or what?" Spot asked and Race glanced at him over his shoulder. Spot's back was to the sun and his shadow looked like nothing more than a half-stuffed scarecrow.

"You're even skinnier without your clothes on," Race said with a laugh. Then he took a deep breath, ran to the end of the dock, and jumped out in to the open air without giving himself time to think about what he was doing.

The water was icy and he gasped as he surfaced, shaking the water out of his eyes. "God, that's cold," he shouted then ducked as Spot flew towards him, arms and legs splayed. He hit the water with a loud smack and a wave pummeled Race as Spot sank beneath the surface.

"Hey, stupid, you almost landed on me," Race bellowed as Spot came up for air.

Spot wiped the water out of his eyes and grinned. "Would have served you right. And who are you to be calling people skinny? You're nothing but skin and bones yourself."

Race dove under the water, scissoring his legs as he moved towards Spot. He reached out and grabbed the other boy's legs, jerking him under the water and propelling himself out of it. He took a gulp of air and then dived under again, swimming towards the protection of the pier.

He broke the water's surface a short way from his destination and took a hurried breath, then dove again and kicked, pulling his body through the water with more skill than he expected. Race hadn't gone swimming since before things went south with Lefty, and even then it wasn't something he sought out. The water always felt nice after the heat of the day, but Race didn't like the clammy way it made him feel once he was out of it, or the slight odor that lingered in his hair for days after a visit to the river. Still, now that he was actually in the water he was enjoying himself. And the look on Spot's face as he'd gone under more than made up for the smell.

Race came up under the pier and floated on his back. The sun flickered down in streaks and lines, pouring through the cracks in the warped wood. He blinked as he drifted into one of them and smiled to himself at how peaceful it was in the shade. This was definitely better then sitting in the hot sun at Sheepshead. Not that he would admit that to Spot.

Race heard a faint splashing off to his right and turned towards it. He grinned when he saw a piece of driftwood slapping against one of the poles. Race shook his head, amazed at how jumpy he was. Swimming lazily around under the pier, Race wondering where Spot had taken himself to.

A second later he was choking on water as the boy in question dragged him under.

* * *

Race lay spread out on the warm boards of the pier, arms tucked under his head. The residual heat of the wood soaked into his back as the sun beat down on his chest bathing him in warmth. He smiled up at the sky and closed his eyes, happy to be alive.

"You look like a cat stretched out in a sunbeam," Spot kicked at Race's foot.

"Leave me alone," Race opened one eye to peer up at Spot and twitched his foot away. Spot kicked Race's foot again. "I said stop that."

"Ah, come on. It's no fun watching you sleep."

"I'm not sleeping."

"You might as well be. You're just lying there, sighing."

Race struggled to keep from doing just that. His lips turned down. _Why's Spot got to be so damn observant all the time, _he thought to himself. Out loud he mumbled, "I am not sighing."

"What do you call those noises you keep making, then?"

"Would you shut up? This is my favorite part of swimming."

"You ain't even in the water anymore, Race."

"I know that, Spot." Race closed his eyes again, hoping that Spot would get the hint. Not surprisingly, he didn't.

"What? Drying off after is your favorite part of swimming?"

"Yeah. Lying out in the sun."

"You're going to be as red as a lobster if you lay there much longer," Spot warned and Race didn't even have to open his eyes to know he was smirking.

"No, I'm not."

Spot snorted. "We'll see who's right."

"Shut up, Spot. You're ruining the moment."

"What does that mean?"

Race opened his eyes and rolled onto his side. He glared at Spot. "Do you always have to be the center of attention?"

"Pretty much," Spot's smile was unrepentant.

Race shifted so that he was lying on his stomach and with his chin resting on his laced hands. He felt the sun start to bake his back and decided that he didn't mind being bothered after all. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

"You're doing it again," Spot said and Race knew that he had rolled his eyes this time.

"So what if I am?"

"It's annoying."

"So are you."

"Is that any way to talk to your friend?"

"Yes."

'That explains why you have so few."

"I've got plenty."

"Those Manhattan boys, they don't count."

"Why not?"

"Because they don't even know you. You don't spend enough time with them for them to understand what a truly obnoxious person you are."

"What was that you were saying about being friends?" Race asked, cracking an eye open to glower at Spot. He did spend most of his time with Spot, come to think of it. When had that happened?

"Those faces you make," Spot said with a shake of his head.

"Ain't you ever gonna shut up?"

"Why would I want to?"

Race sucked on his teeth. "You're starting to pink up."

Spot glanced down at himself and swore. "Damn it, I hate burning."

"Should have taken your own advice, then, shouldn't you?" Race retorted and felt superior. Spot reached across him and grabbed his shirt, knocking his cane over in the process. Race watched it roll a short ways off and asked, "Why do you carry that thing around with you anyway?"

"My cane?"

"No, your dead granny's favorite stuffed dodo," Race said, rolling his eyes. "It makes you look ridiculous. It's at least as tall as you."

"That makes it taller than you," Spot shot back as he shoved his arms into his shirt and began to button it.

"Yeah, but I'm not the one who's walking around with the fool thing attached to my hip."

Spot grabbed at his britches and sniffed. "It's useful to have around, if you know what I mean."

"Sorry, but I don't."

'Why am I not surprised?"

"Just tell me what you mean," Race said with exasperation.

"I don't like to get my hands dirty," Spot said, pulling his red suspenders up over his shoulders.

"And the cane helps how?"

"You might not realize this, seeing as how I tower over you, but I'm not exactly the tallest kid out there."

"I'm short, not blind," Race said dryly, but he knew what Spot wasn't saying. The cane would make up for Spot being such a skinny stick of a boy.

"Besides, I like it. Makes me look important."

"Sure it does," Race chuckled. He studied the cane, taking in the small nicks in the stain of the wood along with the elaborately carved brass head. "Where did you get it, anyway?"

Spot was quiet for a long time and Race rolled over, sitting up to study him. Spot was frowning, his gaze unfocused. His lips twitched down and he nodded, apparently coming to some conclusion.

"It was my father's," he said flatly.

Race cleared his throat at Spot's dead tone. Apparently this was a subject to tread lightly on. "A tall man, then, your father?"

Spot sucked on his teeth. "Might have been. Taller than me, anyhow. But seeing how he disappeared when I was no more then eight and about as tall as a barrel of ale myself, that ain't saying much."

Race suddenly found the patch of wood in front of his feet extremely fascinating.

Spot gave a humorless laugh, his fingers tracing the abstract curlicues on the head of his cane. "My Mam said he must have died. Said he wouldn't have left her willingly. She was the only one who thought that, though. Everyone else said he just plain ran off. Found himself a fresh piece of skirt and set up home where we would never find him."

Race pressed his lips together. He glanced up to judge Spot's expression then back down again, careful not to meet Spot's eye.

"Doesn't matter why he left. He didn't come back."

"Must have been hard on your mother," Race offered and winced at the stupidity of the comment.

Spot made a tsking sound. "Hard. That's one word for it. What sort of a man leaves his woman with three kids and another one on the way?"

Race said nothing, thinking that the wisest choice. Spot pushed his hair behind his ears and took a deep breath. "He left the cane. And I took it, being the oldest and all."

"You'll grow into it," Race said even though he didn't think that Spot would.

Spot tapped Race's leg with the cane. "Stop being nice, you're bad at it."

"So, you have three siblings then?"

"Three what?"

"Siblings. You know, brothers and sisters. I don't. Have any, that is. It was just me and my Pa," Race rambled.

"What happened to your mother?'

"Died," Race replied with a shrug. "When I was little. Don't really remember all that much about her."

"She get sick?"

Race shook his head. "She had," he paused, trying to think of the right way to say it. "It was, well, she was going to have a baby. But something went wrong and she died. So did the baby. Pa said it was a girl. He use to take me to the church and light candles for them."

"So you did have a, what's that word? Sibin?"

Race shook his head. "Doesn't count if they're dead."

"Sure it does," Spot said, lifting his chin.

"It's not the same," Race protested.

"Just because they're dead doesn't mean that they don't matter."

"I didn't say that she doesn't matter," Race sighed. "It's only, well, how can I say I have a sister? I don't."

"But you did."

Race gave Spot a confused look. "Why are we even talking about this?" he asked gruffly.

Spot shrugged and shoved the ends of his shirt into his britches. "Are you getting dressed or what?"

"I guess I ought to." Race stretched and then sat up. "So what happened?"

"What happened when?"

"To your family."

Spot glowered. "Who says something happened?"

"Somehow I don't think you would be out on the streets if nothing happened."

"Some kids are."

"But not you."

"They died, all right?" Spot spat out. "Got dysentery, the lot of them. I got it too, but I lived. Because God hates me."

"God doesn't hate you," Race said reflexively.

"Then why didn't I die?"

Race stared at him, not knowing how to answer. He shook his head. "You know, most people thank God when they don't die."

"I'm not most people."

"Tell me something I didn't know."

Spot laughed bitterly. "That's life." He shifted his weight and touched his upper lip with his tongue. "Here one day, gone the next and nothing to show for it. My Mam died. The little ones died. And I lived. If I had died, who would even remember that any of us had ever been alive in the first place? If I die now who will remember me?"

"I will," Race said quietly. He caught Spot's gaze and held it.

Spot sneered, tearing his eyes away. "And who are you? Nothing but some street kid. A no name newsie."

"Same as you," Race retorted angrily, his feelings hurt.

Spot made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Well, I want more. I'm going to make a name for myself. A name they'll remember a hundred years from now. I'm Spot Conlon, and no one is going to forget about me when I die."

"How you going to do that?" Race jeered, still upset.

Spot gave him a sly look. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Race shrugged. "I don't care about what happens after I die. What does it matter? I'll be dead either way."

"Don't you want to be remembered for something?"

"What good does it do me if it I am?"

"What good does it do you to become a headstone no one reads?"

"Now there's an image," Race said with a grin.

"Don't change the subject."

"I wasn't."

"Yeah, you were."

Race was tired of the conversation. It was nice out and all he wanted to do was enjoy the fine spring weather, not think about _dying_, for christsakes. "Look, Spot, I don't care. Plain and simple. When I'm gone, I'm gone. And whether or not anyone remembers me won't change that." Race stood and walked over to the crate with his clothing on it. He took his shoes off of the top of the pile and removed the socks, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the slightly damp feel of them.

He spread them out on the wood to dry and then stepped into his britches, pulling his suspenders up in one fluid motion. Race buttoned his fly and then reached for his undershirt, enjoying the warmth of it in his fingers. After slipping it over his head and tucking it into his britches, Race donned the heavy overshirt and did up the buttons.

He sat on the crate, one hand on his knee, and glanced over at Spot. "Spot Conlon. That's the name you want to be remembered by?"

"It's my name, ain't it?"

Race raised his eyebrows. "That's what your mother called you then?" he shook his head in mock pity. "What were the names of the others? Speck, Blot and Dot?"

Spot scowled at him. "Faolan, Ailbe and Muireann."

"Fawailawn, Allbay and Murin?" Race said, tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar words. "Is yours as bad as all that?"

"What's wrong with those names? They're good Irish names."

"I notice that you failed to answer the question."

"Suibhne."

"What?"

"My name. It's Suibhne."

"Sivnuh?" Race said in disbelief. "Makes sense, you wanting to be remembered as Spot. No one could pronounce that, let alone remember it."

Spot flushed and then stared pointedly over Race's shoulder. Race sighed and reached for his still damp socks. "I've got an ethnic name too," he said with a shrug. "Or, at least it was when my mother would say it."

"You remember the way your mother use to say your name?"

"I wouldn't have said it otherwise." As he leaned forward to slip his foot into his sock, his watch fell out of his pocket. Before he could grab it, Spot had it in his hands. "That's mine." He held his hand out for the watch.

"I'm just looking at it." Spot examined the watch, turning it so that the light shown on the engraved surface. He whistled. "Mighty fancy, there, Racetrack."

Race watched as the sunlight glinted off of the stag in its circle of thistle. "Give it back," Race said, dropping the sock.

"I will when I'm good and ready," Spot replied as he flipped open the top. He made a face. "Where did you say you got this again?"

"I didn't."

"Steal it?"

"No."

"You expect me to believe that this is your name then?" Spot asked, amused.

"I never said it was."

"But the watch is?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

"Why would you have a watch with someone else's name on it?" Spot snapped the lid closed and handed it over.

Race ran a finger over the familiar image, then slid it back into his breast pocket and fastened the button. "It was a gift."

"From who?"

Race chewed on his lip, not wanting to answer. Spot put his hands on his hips and glared at him. "I answered all your questions," he said pointedly.

Race let out a breath. "They gave it to me when he died. The men he worked for. Said they were planning on giving it to him on account of him doing such a fine job for them. But he died before they could and so I got it."

"He? Your Pa?"

Race bent to retrieve the sock and roughly shoved his foot into it. "Yeah. That's his name on the inside."

"Your father's name, you say?"

"What of it?"

"Fergus Higgins?"

"Yeah."

"So when you said ethnic you meant Irish."

Race shook his head. "No, I didn't."

"But your father is Irish."

"Well, my mother wasn't."

"And it wasn't ethnic when she wasn't saying it?"

Race gave Spot an annoyed look. "If you want to know my name, why don't you just ask?"

"Because figuring it out is half the fun."

"You know how I feel about your idea of fun."

Spot gave Race a hard look and Race held it for as long as he could. But that wasn't long enough.

He gave an exasperated noise. "It's Anthony. Antonio back when my mother was alive. But Anthony to my Pa."

"Antonio Higgins?"

"You got a problem with that, Sivnuh?"

"It's Suibhne, you cretin."

"Sounds the same to me."

"Ah, what do you know?"

"I think I'll just stick to Spot." Race said with a nod.

Spot tapped his chin, his expression thoughtful. "Racetrack. Didn't that watch say something about Racetrack?"

"Yeah."

"Why's that?"

"My Pa was fond of the ponies."

"So you came by it honest then," Spot mused. "Your obsession with them damn fool horses."

Race narrowed his eyes at the smug look on Spot's face, trying and failing to find a reason for it. He could only assume that something about his answer had pleased Spot, but why that was Race couldn't even guess at.

Race finished tying his laces and stood. "I'm hungry."

"Ain't that nice."

"I'm going to find me something to eat."

"And if I ain't interested in eating?"

'Then you can just head on back to Poplar Street. Not that I would recommend it, you being as deathly thin as you are." Spot glared at Race, who laughed. "Right, Tibby's then."

"Tibby's? That's across the bridge!"

"So?"

"So, there are perfectly fine diners here."

"I don't want to eat here. I want to eat at Tibby's."

"You're too particular," Spot said with a shake of the head.

"I like what I like."

"And what you like is always inconvenient."

"It's not inconvenient for me." Race began to make his way back up the ramp, shaking his head as he stepped in a pile of unrecognizable goop. He scrapped the bottom of his foot against the boards and tried not to think about what the greenish brown substance might have once been.

"You know, Race, most people try and think about others not just themselves."

Race snorted. "Are you trying to tell me that you ascribe to that philosophy?"

"Are you trying to make my head explode? Where did you learn all those fancy words anyway?"

"I've been a newsie for a ways now, Spot. If I couldn't figure out what the words on the page meant I wouldn't still be one." Race glanced back over his shoulder and saw Spot nimbly picking his way over the piles of refuse.

"Christ, does that mean I'll start talking like you?"

"Only if you're lucky."

"That's not what I call lucky."

"Oh really? You'd rather walk around sounding like a street rat?"

"I am a street rat." Spot caught up to Race and slung an arm around his shoulder. "Hell, this used to be my home."

Race started. He turned, Spot effortlessly matching his movement, and gave the pier a long look. If this was where Spot had started out, then maybe his grand plans were more than just talk.

Still, that wasn't any reason to ignore the facts.

"You can't be a newsie forever," he said with a pointed look.

"You keep saying that."

"It keeps being true." Race gave the pier one final look and then shrugged off Spot's arm. "And besides, you've been saying some fancy words yourself, Spot."

"None as fancy as those."

"Says you."

"So, Tibby's then?" Spot said with a sigh.

"Tibby's," Race agreed and slapped Spot amicably on the back. "You'll do it, Spot. I can tell." He began to walk again, eager to get back onto the shore.

"Do what?" Spot called after him.

"Make a name for yourself," Race replied without looking back. "You're too arrogant not to."


	6. This Ain't Worth Fighting For

This Ain't Worth Fighting For

_September 21, 1897_

"Would you look at that," Race said as he passed through the gate marking the entrance to Sheepshead Races and saw a group of boys standing in his customary spot under the trees. He slowed and elbowed Spot. "Friends of yours?"

Spot shook his head. "They ain't from Brooklyn."

Race watched as one of the boys noticed them and alerted the others to their presence. "What do you think they want?" he asked in a low voice.

"From the looks of it, our spot."

"Not going to happen," Race said, glaring at the boys.

Spot touched the head of his cane, nodding. "There's only four of them; we can take 'em."

Race pursed his lips as he glanced around. No sign of the bulls. He tugged off his cap and cleared his throat. "You boys lost?" he asked loudly as he and Spot closed the distance between them.

The biggest one crossed his arms and scowled. "You got no right to be here," he said gruffly.

"That's funny," Spot said lazily, steeping toward the boys with his head cocked mockingly to the side. "I was just about to say that to you."

"Yeah," Race added with a scowl. "So why don't you make like a tree and leave?"

Spot gave him a startled look and mouthed the words 'make like a tree' in disbelief.

"What?" Race asked him.

Spot scratched his forehead. "Later."

Race gave him a dirty look, then shifted his attention back to the strange boys. Two of them had moved to flank the larger boy while the fourth stood guard over their papers.

The big one cracked his knuckles saying, "You boys are a long way from Brooklyn."

"Last time I checked, Sheepshead Bay was part of Brooklyn," Spot retorted, carefully setting his papers down.

"On a map, maybe," the boy to the right of the big one said, slurring his words. "But things ain't always how they say they are."

Race looked at Spot. "Did that make sense to you?"

Spot shrugged.

"What does that mean?" Race asked the group in general.

The big one cleared his throat. "What Topper is saying is that you boys got no right to be here. Ain't that right, Topper?"

Topper nodded. "Course it is, Buck."

"How the hell do you get that out of what he said?" Race asked, pushing his cap back on his forehead. He gave the big one a wide-eyed stare. "You trying to say that all that talk meant that Spot and I ain't welcome to the spot we've been selling in for the past four years." Race dropped his papers on top of Spot's, hoping that Spot wouldn't comment about the "we've," and shook his head. He glanced at Spot and shook his head. "He's nuts, if you ask me."

Spot gave Race a cocky grin as he dropped his hat on top of the pile of papers. "You are right, Race my boy. They're crazy, out of their minds, completely mad, if they think for one minute that they can just waltz on in here and take our selling spot without so much as a by your leave."

"You ain't got no right to be here," Buck sneered.

"We've got every right," Spot challenged. "You boys ain't even from Brooklyn."

"Are too," the little one guarding the papers called out. All eyes turned to him and he instantly seemed to regret saying anything, lowering his eyes and kicking at the dirt.

Race and Spot looked at each other and then deliberately shifted their attention back to the boys who mattered. Race unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his shoulders, loosening up, recognizing that spark of stubbornness in Spot's eye and knowing it meant he would be in the lead.

"Then how come you bums are out here bothering us when every newsie in Brooklyn knows that Mouse gave Sheepshead to Race?" Spot asked as he began to roll up his sleeves.

Buck scowled. "You think we take orders from some no-account Irish thug?"

"Sure do," Spot replied coolly. "Just like everyone else in Brooklyn."

"We don't like your sort, boy," Buck glowered and tried to look menacing.

"My sort?"

Buck tilted his head to the side. "Yeah, your sort."

Race mirrored the action. "And what sort would that be?" he asked.

"Degenerates, the lot of you. Coming over here and taking our jobs like you're our equal. But you're not. Your whole race ain't nothing but trash."

"Irish, you mean," Spot clarified.

"What else would I mean, you damned Papist."

Spot nodded and then shot a glance at Race. "Looks like we got ourselves a group of nativists on our hands."

"Would appear that way," Race agreed. He watched as the other boys shifted nervously and wondered what the difference between the so-called native born Americans and second generation immigrants like Spot and himself was. Seemed to him that both were born on American soil and both had an equal right to be there. But clearly he was in the minority.

"Seems that they have forgotten that Brooklyn belongs to the Irish. Has for more years then they've been alive." Spot hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders and leaned back slightly. "They've also managed to forget that Old Smoke saw the end of the Bowery Boys before this lot's daddies were born. Which puts these poor bastards in a right tight spot, now doesn't it?"

Race didn't answer, but he was sure that Spot wasn't expecting him to anyway. Both Spot and Buck had disgusted looks on their faces. Both were obviously irritated by the other. Buck's eyes lingered on Spot's faded britches and worn collar and the way Spot was exaggerating the Irish tint to his Brooklyn accent told Race that he had noticed. Race suppressed a sigh at the posturing, wondering if the boys knew that they looked like roosters rearing up for a fight. Race frowned. There was only going to be one ending to this.

"Irish," Buck said the way one might have said "chump" or "scabber."

"What of it?" Spot jeered.

Race rubbed his mouth. He didn't want to fight. Especially not over something as foolhardy as where his father was born. Maybe he would feel differently if he was full-blooded or had just got off the boat. Maybe then all this posturing would make sense. But he wasn't and it didn't.

Even his father hadn't had anything pleasant to say about his native land. Race frowned, remembering the way his father use to curse and rant about Ireland when he was too far gone to care. Fergus Higgins' face would flush an unhealthy shade of red as he carried on about moldy plants and the damned English. He was poetic when drunk, calling Ireland "a wasteland of bloated bodies" and describing the effects of disease in such great detail that it had haunted Race's dreams. Not exactly something Race wanted to defend the memory of.

Brooklyn. Now that was another matter. Race would gladly smash the face in of any bum talking bad about Brooklyn. And Manhattan. Although, Race would much rather hear someone mouthing off about Manhattan, if it came down to it. And nobody had better speak ill of America in general when Race was around. Because America just about topped the charts in Race's mind.

It was the best country in the world. Why else would so many people be risking their lives just for the chance to come here? Race was lucky, damned lucky he thought, to have been born in the one country that everyone else was trying so hard to get to.

Why should he care about Ireland? Why should he be forced to fight because of it? Race didn't give a damn about Ireland. But these boys weren't going to give him any say in the matter. And neither would Spot, if it came to that.

Race sighed and rolled up his sleeves, waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

"I'll give you one last chance," Spot said as he lifted his chin, his hands clenched loosely at his sides. "Get out of here and don't come back."

Buck laughed. "You hear him, Topper? He thinks he can take us. Him and that midget of his."

Topper snorted. "Like to see him try."

Spot angled his head to the side and smirked. "Can't cry foul now, not after I warned you and all."

Spot was fairly confident that things would go his way. He hadn't seen Race in action, but both Mouse and Jack had vouched for him and that had to mean something. Even if Race ended up not being worth his salt, he would at least be a distraction for one or more of the boys, which would give Spot more then enough opportunity to take care of the rest.

If things got a little tight, there was always the cane. Spot had yet to lose a fight when he was carrying his cane. He touched the brass head with one finger, rubbing it for luck. He let his eyes flick from boy to boy, a smirk scrawled across his face, taking in the eager stance of Topper and the nervous look on the face of the boy watching over the papers.

Buck put his hands on his hips and scowled. "Think you're something, don't you Irish?"

Spot sneered at him, casually dropping into a defensive position, letting his body language do the talking. He watched as Topper widened his stance, shifting in a way that showed the boy's familiarity with fighting. The boy on the other side of Buck caught his lip between his teeth and brushed his dark brown hair off of his face with a hand that shook. That one was the weak link.

Buck snorted and then spat at Spot's feet. "That's what I think of you."

Spot eyed the glob of saliva and then kicked a chunk of dirt over it. "That's more than I'd say in return," he said, readying himself for the first blow.

Before Buck could move, Race stepped in and slammed a fist into the taller boy's stomach. Buck let out a pained gasp and belatedly raised his fists, muttering curses all the while. Spot watched as Race shot past Buck's guard, landing a solid blow to the Buck's right side.

Topper moved slightly, drawing Spot's attention to him. Spot smiled, eager to join the fray, and he stepped up to meet him.

Spot saw Topper's chest shift and moved accordingly, willingly taking the hit, knowing it would be unexpected and give him the edge. The blow stung when it landed, but didn't give him a moment's pause. He hissed in pain but stepped into the next punch as well, which threw Topper off just as Spot had predicted. The boy blinked rapidly and failed to notice that Spot was inside his zone.

Spot slammed his fists into Topper's core, years of scrapping telling him exactly where to aim in order to do the most damage. Spot moved with skill and speed, ignoring the swats Topper aimed at his face and head. He angled his body and neatly tripped the other boy. When Topper fell Spot kicked him savagely in the side and before Topper could recover Spot was kneeling on his chest, pinning the boy's arms down, leaving Topper completely defenseless.

Spot wrapped his hands in Topper's hair and slammed the boy's head hard against the cobblestones, smiles ruthlessly at the crunching sound and the sticky dampness that instantly coated the tips of his fingers. He heard a grunt and let go of the unconscious boy as he hurriedly attempted to stand.

A searing pain shot through his back as someone hit him in the kidneys. Spot stifled the urge to arch his back and finished getting to his feet. He turned, hands clenching into fists and coming up instinctively. The boy in front of him still had his lip caught between his teeth and his bottle-green eyes were wide with fear.

Spot laughed and the boy recoiled away from the sound.

Taking advantage of his opponent's momentary distraction to settle into a better stance, Spot waited for the boy to make his move. His ears perked at the sounds of muffled grunting coming from slightly to the left of him, but Spot refused to let his attention shift from the target in front of him.

Spot smiled as the boy lunged clumsy at him, hands balled into awkward fists. Spot easily dodged the blow and just as easily landed one of his own. Spot saw panic in the green eyes a moment before the boy doubled over. Wanting to end this swiftly, Spot grabbed hold of the long brown hair and slammed that fearful face into his upraised knee. Spot let go of the boy in disgust as the boy began to sob and was not at all surprised when the boy took off running in the opposite direction.

Spot shook his head and turned towards the sound of flesh striking flesh.

Race was pummeling the fourth boy, arms moving so fast that Spot felt a rush of envy. Race was good. No doubt about that. Spot heard another groan and glanced down. Buck was laying spread-eagle on the ground a short distance away from where Race was fighting.

Spot stepped over to him and prodded him with the toe of his boot, his eyes never leaving Race. Buck feebly shifted away from Spot but made no move to get up. _Good, _Spot thought. That one was out for the count, which meant that the only one left was the boy Race was soundly beating.

Spot smiled smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. That showed those boys. Who did they think they were messing with, anyway? Spot watched as Race delivered a particularly painful combination of punches and felt his chest swell with pride and something he couldn't quite name.

It was graceful, the way Race moved. Almost like a dance. He circled the other boy, searching for any sign of weakness, and when he found one, Race took full advantage of it. Spot had never seen anything like it.

Apparently, neither had the crowd that had gathered around them. Men were cheering and calling out encouragements, hastily placing bets on the outcome. Spot was patted on the back a few times and suffered through being called a good sport, but overall the attention of the crowd was on Race and his adversary.

The other boy was good. Not nearly as good as Race, but good nonetheless. He was holding his own and, unless Buck was responsible for the split lip, had managed to get a few solid blows in of his own. Spot nodded approval as the boy feigned right only to come across hard on the left. Race blocked him, neatly jabbing the boy in the ribs and Spot felt as proud as if he had landed the blow himself.

Assured of the outcome of the fight, Spot moved over to where he had dropped his papers and stood over them. It wasn't likely that any of the men would take their eyes off of the fight long enough to realize that they were there, but Spot wasn't going to leave something like that up to chance.

He cheered along with the rest of the bystanders as Race belted the boy, shoving his fist so hard into the other's cheek that there was an audible pop. The boy went deadly white and dropped his hands, backing away from Race in the classic sign of surrender.

"Had enough?" Race was breathing hard.

The boy worked his jaw and then spit out a mouthful of blood. "Ain't worth it," he muttered as he turned to walk away.

"Don't come back," Race called after him, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

Spot bent down and scooped up the papers before moving forward to clap Race on the back. "You're a good man to have in a fight," he said jovially.

Race shrugged his hand away. "Pointless," he said under his breath.

"Pointless?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?"

Spot busied himself separating Race's papers from his own and tried to figure out what Race had meant. Those boys had tried to take their spot. They had insulted Spot and Race's people as well as The Church. That wasn't something that Spot could just let slip. Spot and Race had given them the beating that they rightly deserved. What was pointless about that?

"Don't see what you can mean by it," Spot muttered as he handed over Race's papers.

"Here now, kid, give me one of them there papers," a man in a torn grey coat said with a wide smile, passing over a nickel. "And don't you be worrying about no change. What's a few pennies between Paddies, eh?"

"That's more entertainment than I've had all week," a sharply dressed man said, tossing a dime at Spot, who scrambled to pick it out of the dirt.

Spot grinned at Race as he tucked the shiny coin into his breast pocket. Race wouldn't meet his eyes. Instead, he stood with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, ignoring the well-wishers and leaving Spot to collect whatever coins they might be handing out.

Spot waited until the crowd had cleared, which took longer than he would have expected, before confronting Race. "What's the matter with you?" he asked as he leaned against a wall, his hand inside the pocket that held all their extra earnings.

Race lifted one shoulder but said nothing. Spot took in the hunched shoulders and eyes purposely focused on the ground and pursed his lips. Race should be proud. He was a damned fine fighter, better than Spot would have believed. Spot was no slouch himself when it came to brawling, but he was fairly certain that Race could trounce him. Hell, Spot might even enjoy finding out who was best. So why was Race acting like he'd done something shameful?

"We had a soaked 'em good," Spot persisted. "A few hard ones got past my guard, but other than that, there's not a reason for me to be complaining. Same goes for you, don't it Race? I've never seen a body fight like that. Like you were born to it or something. Why didn't you tell me how good you are?"

Race grunted and started to walk away.

"Where you going?" Spot called, shifting his grip on the few remaining papers as he hurried after Race.

"Away from here," Race said, rubbing his palms against his shirt as if they were dirty.

"We haven't finished selling yet," Spot protested, struggling to keep up.

"So stay and sell, what do I care?"

"You ain't hurt are you?" Spot gave Race a quick once over. He didn't see anything wrong with him, but that didn't mean that there wasn't something awry.

"I just want to be by myself, all right?"

"No, it ain't all right."

Race stopped walking and turned to face Spot. Spot took the opportunity to thrust out Race's share of the papers. Race snatched at them, nearly tearing the top one in his haste. His eyes were narrowed as he said, "Shove off."

"Come on, Race, we did fine. Why you acting all sore over it?"

Race tugged his cap off his head and balled it in his free hand. "If you're looking at the end result, then sure, we did fine."

"What else is there to look at?" Spot was genuinely perplexed. "We didn't ask those bums to come around here and lay claim to what's rightfully ours. What were we supposed to do? Just let them take out spot?"

Race shook his head. "No one is taking what's mine. I'll soak any fool that tried."

"Then what's got you in such a foul mood?"

"What's the point, huh?" Race slapped the cap back on his head.

"The point?" Spot gave Race a blank look. "They insulted us and we showed them. What more do you need to know?"

Race gave him a disgusted look and Spot tried to recall what he might have said to warrant it. "Look, Race," he said slowly, "We've got a right to defend ourselves."

"I ain't saying we don't," Race bit out. He crossed his arms awkwardly, papers bunching, and curled his lip.

"Then what are you saying?" Spot didn't bother to hide his confusion or the anger that was starting to build inside him. Arguing with Race made his skin crawl.

Race cocked an eyebrow. "You don't understand, do you?"

Spot bristled at the underlying pity in that comment. He didn't want Race's pity. What he wanted from Race was hard to pin down, but he knew damned well that whatever it was it wasn't pity. He slapped a smug expression on his face, tried to think of something witty and failed miserably.

Trying not to focus on why that might be, Spot glanced around, attempting to find some answer that made sense from his surroundings. All he saw were a couple of tramps and a man at the betting window, who nodded good naturedly at them. Spot nodded back.

"I give up," he said finally. "What don't I understand?"

Race gave him a sympathetic look. "There's more important things in life, Spot. What's the point in getting all riled up over some chuff about a land we ain't never seen."

Spot frowned, remembering the insults that Buck had given him. "Us Irish boys, we got to stick together."

Race let out a long breath. "You're as bad as they are." His expression was closed off, almost hostile, as he turned on his heel and began to walk again.

The pity was gone now but it was replaced with something worse. Spot let out a frustrated moan. He wouldn't win for the world. Spot hated being on the outs with Race and not just because it made Race walk fast. "What? What did I say?" he managed to get out as he tried to keep pace.

To his disgust, Race had no trouble speaking as he said, "Going on about Irish this and Irish that. I'm not Irish. I'm American. I was born here and I'll die here. I ain't planning on ever leaving here. Certainly not for some godforsaken island that can't manage to feed itself."

"Well now," Spot huffed, "I didn't know you felt that strongly about it. But you got to remember who you are, where your people came from."

Race put his hands on his hips which mangled his papers even further. He spun around and glared at Spot. "My people?" he bit out. "What people? I've never met these so-called people. And I don't see 'my people' helping me out any. I put food on my plate. I put clothes on my back. My hard work is what keeps me from sleeping in the streets. So, no, I don't think I owe 'my people' a damn thing."

Spot laughed nervously. What did Race expect? No one gave you a hand out for free, there was always some sort of catch. Maybe being Irish hadn't done anything for him so far, but Spot was smart enough to know that if he played his cards right it just might in the future.

But Race didn't seem to be thinking about the future. Or at least not what role being on the ups with the right sort of people might play in it. But in this case he didn't have to, because Spot was there to do Race's thinking for him. Give it a year or two and Spot would have Race seeing things from his perspective. For now, however, Spot would let it slide.

He considered his words carefully before saying, "When you put it that way, I don't see as you do." Rave gave him a suspicious look. Spot lifted his hands in front of him. "I ain't saying that I'm changing my mine on the matter, just that maybe you have a reason for being," he paused, realizing that disloyal was not a good word to use. "Look, I'm saying that maybe I'm starting to understand is all."

That earned him a reluctant grin and Spot smiled broadly in response.

Race nodded once and then glanced down at his ruined papers. "Ah hell," he muttered.

Spot swallowed his comment, not wanting to risk the tentative truce. He shifted and felt the heavy clank of coins in his breast pocket. He shook his head, not believing that he had managed to forget the windfall. "Hey." Race glanced at him. "Why the sour face? Those chumps gave us more than enough to cover that mess." He gestured at the crumpled papers in Race's hand.

Race's grinned outright at that, but he sobered himself enough to ask, "How much coin?"

Spot shrugged. "No idea. Didn't have time to count it."

"Well, then how do you know what it will cover?" Race's grin was replaced with a scowl and Spot didn't like that at all.

"It will," he said gruffly, looking around. He pointed to a nearby bench. "I'll count over there, don't want anyone to see how much we got. I don't want to have to bust any more faces," he joked.

Race didn't laugh. "All right," he said and started walking.

"Why do you always have to set out like there's a devil on your trail?" Spot called after him, deciding not to attempt to keep up.

Race slowed and gave Spot a sheepish look over his shoulder. "I just walk. How can I help it if you ain't able to make those legs of yours work?"

"My legs work just fine," Spot grumbled.

"Sure they do." Race dropped onto the bench. "Now count."

Spot made a face. "Who made you the boss?"

"Mouse. He said I'd make a better leader than Lefty would." Race's face was a mask of impish delight.

Spot shook his head. "A dead rat would make a better leader than Lefty would, the bum."

Race made a face. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, you need to sort things out with Lefty."

Spot punched him in the shoulder. "Shut up."

He sat next to Race and put his hand in his breast pocket, wrapping his fingers around the pile of coins and pulling it out gingerly so as not to drop any. He spread his hand out flat and began to pick through the pile. It was made up of mostly pennies, but there were a number of silver coins as well.

Race leaned over Spot's hand and let out a low whistle. He picked out two dimes and a nickel. "Look at that, would you?" he crowed.

Spot grinned up at him. "Pretty good." He cupped his palm and shook it, causing another nickel to come into view. "Thirty cents, and that's not counting the pennies."

"More than enough."

Spot's eyes narrowed. "More than enough for what?"

"A bath."

"What?" Spot felt a rash of annoyance. "I ain't paying for a bath. Not when you can get them free at the lodging house."

Race gave him a smug expression. "You ain't never had a proper bath. Not if you're counting what you get in that lodging house as one."

Spot clamped his hands protectively over the coins. "I am not about to waste my good fortune on a little soap and water."

"Look, Spot, you can do whatever you want. But me, well, I'm covered in mud and blood. And I'm treating myself to a bath."

"A bath," Spot said resignedly.

"Yeah, bath." Race gave him a cocky grin. "The kind with a tub big enough to stretch out in."

The words caught hold of Spot and caused his throat to go dry. He shook his head to clear the image and scowled, muttering, "Why am I friends with you again?"

Race laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because I make you look good in a fight."


	7. Don't Turn Your Back On Me

Don't Turn Your Back on Me

_December 2, 1897_

Race looked up and frowned as Spot walked towards him. He pursed his lips, but didn't mention the eye so swollen that it no longer opened all the way or the dried blood caked in the creases of Spot's lips. Race knew by now that calling attention to the injuries only served to put Spot in an even fouler mood than had become his customary one. So he merely nodded when Spot called out a greeting and gestured to the bench where he sat.

"Have a seat," he said affably, eyes narrowing as he watched Spot walk, clearly favoring his right leg.

Spot shook his head. "Can't."

"Why not?"

Spot lifted the stack of papers in his left hand. "Not finished selling."

Race rubbed his cheek. This could go badly for him, but a fella had to offer. "Hand them over, I'll finish for you."

Spot bristled. "The hell you will!"

"Don't be stupid, Spot."

"I don't need your help," Spot bit out.

"Yeah, you do." Race took a deep breath, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? "No one's gonna buy papes off you. You look like you crawled out of your grave this morning."

"There ain't nothing wrong with the way I look," Spot said defiantly.

"I hate to disagree," Race replied causally, "But you look like someone used your face for a punching bag." He held his hand out for the papers. "You know as well as I do that your busted puss is bad for business. So hand 'em over and stop your bellyaching."

"I ain't bellyaching," Spot grossed, but he handed over the papers anyway. He sniffed and then settled himself on the bench gingerly.

"Take it easy," Race said, standing up. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Rub it in, why don't you?" Spot said bitterly, working his jaw like talking hurt.

Race shook his head, "You ought to take my advice."

Spot gave him a filth look and awkwardly got to his feet. "You ought to know when to leave well enough alone," he growled. His hand shot out and he took back the papers.

"Don't be a fool," Race said angrily, taking hold of the stack.

"Let go." Spot tugged them free again.

"Just sit yourself on that bench and let me finish up for you," Race barked. A woman walked past them and sniffed derisively. Race gave her a big smile and she turned up her nose. Race waited till she was out of hearing range and then turned on Spot. "You're making a scene," he hissed.

Spot crossed his arms and tilted his chin up. Race bit back a curse at the sight of Spot's tell. "Don't go getting your back up," he warned.

"Don't tell me what to do," Spot snapped.

Race sighed. "Fine," he said resolutely. "Sell them yourself. It's no skin off my nose." He dropped down onto the bench and swung his arms up over the back of it, making a show of how comfortable he was. "I'll be right here, enjoying the fine weather."

"It's freezing out," Spot said with a snort.

"The sun's out and the snow's packed down. Perfect winter day, if you ask me," Race commented as if his hands weren't blocks of ice and his nose wasn't burning. Spot made a disbelieving sound and Race gave him a cold look. "You've got some papes to sell, don't you?"

Spot made a face. "Think you're funny, don't you?"

Race waved him away. "Sell those damned papes, would you Spot. I don't fancy sitting out here all day."

He sat on the bench and watched as Spot began to call, wondering when Spot was going to face reality. Life was not treating him kindly and it didn't look like things were going to change any time soon.

Race sighed. He had warned Spot. He had told him not to stay on Lefty's hit list. But Spot wouldn't listen, and now he was paying for it.

In the month since Mouse had left to go work for Big Tim, Spot had shown up with three black eyes, two split lips and what Race was certain was a cracked rib. His knuckles were perpetually raw, and he had a haunted look that Race easily recognized as coming from not sleeping at night.

But Spot steadfastly refused to admit that things were out of his control. Instead, he was full of talk about banding together and rallying points. Race snorted. Stupid. Just plain stupid. Lefty was in charge. Lefty, while being the world's biggest bastard, had a solid base of support. And Spot was an undersized loudmouth that no one liked, even if they did grudgingly respect him.

So, the way Race saw it, Spot had two options: get on Lefty's good side or leave Brooklyn altogether. Since Race was more likely to see it rain cigarettes than Spot sucking up to Lefty, Race had been doing his best to convince Spot of the latter. Not that it had done a lick of good.

A half hour dragged by and Spot only managed to sell two papers. Race sucked on his teeth as a man walked past Spot without making eye contact. "That's it," he muttered to himself, standing up. He stomped life back into his feet and then trudged over to where Spot was standing. "My stomach's eating itself," he growled as he pulled the papers out of Spot's hand.

"So feed it." Spot jutted his chin out.

"Sit down and shut up." Race glared at Spot, wondering if he would have to walk off with the papers in order to win the point. Spot couldn't keep up with him on a good day, and lately Race had been forcing himself to walk at the pace of a snail so that Spot wouldn't do himself an injury trying. Spot surprised him by simply shaking his head and making his way back to the bench.

Race tried not to wince at the painfully slow progress Spot made and muttered something nasty about Lefty's parentage.

Once Spot was settled on the bench, Race turned his attention to problem at hand. This late in the day it was hard to get passersby interested, but Race had a few tricks up his sleeve and wasn't above using the pity card when it served his interests. He made his eyes as big as they would go and called out feebly to a group of women decked out like they were going to the opera instead of slumming at the tracks.

They clucked over him, tousling his hair and crooning about "the poor plight of the street arabs" as they each bought a paper. Race smiled wanly up at them, thanking them with a faked cough. They clucked some more and gave him a sympathy tip, which he tucked into his pocket with more thanks.

Race privately wondered how much longer he would be able to pull that sort of a stunt. He was small for his age, and his face seemed determined never to mature, but he wasn't as young as he once was, and the bigger you got the less interested in your plight the well-meaning matrons of the city would be.

He worried about what his future would be like when he got too old to sell the papers. Race didn't really have any marketable skills, other than a certain affinity for numbers, and he couldn't see how that particular ability would ever come in useful. Silently promising himself that he would cough up an extra penny each day for his savings, Race pushed the matter of his future aside.

Race picked his marks carefully and within an hour he was finished selling Spot's papers. He smiled widely as he crossed the courtyard. "Sorry I took so long," he said to Spot as he joined him on the bench.

Spot gave him a cross look and blew on his hands. "I'm freezing here," he muttered.

Race held out the money for Spot to take. "Here." Spot slapped at his hand. "Take it."

"I didn't earn it," Spot said bitterly.

"Oh for the love of--" Race rolled his eyes and shoved the money into Spot's coat pocket. "Stop acting all noble."

"Get your filthy hands off me." Spot scowled.

"Keep that attitude and tomorrow I won't help you at all," Race warned.

Spot sniffed and said, "Good, I don't want your help."

"Shut up," Race said without any feeling behind it. "And let's get something to eat. I'm starving."

"I ain't hungry."

"Spot, don't make me soak you."

"You think you can?" Spot cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes.

Race eyed Spot and sighed. "I'd be one cold son-of-a-bitch if I did."

Spot's face hardened. "I ain't no pity case."

"I didn't say that you were," Race soothed, standing up. It wasn't pity that filled Race when he looked at Spot's battered face. It was rage. He plopped back down on the bench, closer to Spot but Spot shifted, putting more space between them than before.

"I can take care of myself," Spot said darkly.

Race nodded. "I know you can." He rubbed his hands against his legs and then blew on them. "Come on, let's get out of the cold."

Spot glowered at him. "I know what I look like, Race."

"I didn't say nothing about how you look."

"You don't have to, it's written all over your face." Spot made a disgusted noise. "But I didn't come out the worst of it. It took four of them to pound me this time, and I'm damn sure I broke Poole's leg."

"His leg?' Race shook his head. Breaking a fella's leg could cripple him for life. "That's a bit much, don't you think?"

Spot gave him a hard look. "I've been taking beatings for the past month and I'm damn well sick of it. If breaking Poole's leg means that the rest of those bums will think twice before they come after me, then so be it." He lifted a shoulder, grinned sheepishly, and added, "I didn't do it on purpose," in a lighter tone.

"How do you break a fella's leg on accident?"

Spot laughed. "Well, you got a point. Better to say that I didn't set out to break his leg. It just sort of happened, you know."

No, Race really didn't. He scratched his head through his hat. "How'd it happen?"

Spot grinned. "I popped him good in the hip with my cane right after he split my lip. He kind of twisted so I kicked at his leg. Brought him right down. But his foot must have been caught 'cause when Poole fell his leg didn't. Made this awful cracking noise. Christ, I've never heard anybody scream the way Poole did."

Race flinched. "What happened then?" he leaned towards Spot, bracing his arm on the back of the bench.

"Well, Fagan and Natty went to help him up and Kipling ran for the doctor and I hightailed it out of there. I haven't seen Poole since, but I heard that something is wrong with his leg and that the doctor won't see to it without payment first."

"Lefty's going to be out for blood after this." Race gave Spot a pointed look. "You know how much them doctors charge?"

Spot scoffed. "What else can he do? He's already got his boys gunning for me. And like I said earlier, they are going to be thinking twice after this. A black eye is one thing, but a busted leg? No one wants to be a crip for real."

Race thought Spot's logic was screwy, but let it go. "You're taking a mighty big risk there. I told you before and I'll say it again – you ought to just cut your losses."

"I know what you think."

"Spot," Race began, but Spot cut him off.

"I'm not in the mood for another one of your lectures, so just shut up, would you?"

Race gave him a dirty look but let the subject drop. He leaned back down on the bench and realized that the day actually had turned out fairly nice. The sun was warm and the wind, which had been blowing all week, had finally stopped. "I got an idea," he said slowly. "Let's blow off the afternoon edition and head on out to the docks. We can stop by a deli on the way and have ourselves a bite to eat out of the wind."

For a moment it looked like Spot might object, but then he nodded his head and carefully stood up. Race joined him and together they made their way slowly out of the races.

* * *

Spot sat with his back against one of the support beam holding up the second level of the dock and smiled. The movement tugged at his split lip, which made it hurt, so he dropped the expression and tried to move so that he would be more comfortable. His back hurt. So did his eye. He shifted again but it didn't do any good.

He eyed the half a sandwich sitting on butcher paper just slightly out of his reach and debated leaning forward to grab it. His stomach growled and he frowned, which made his lip hurt again.

Spot winced and cursed. Everything hurt, damn it. He was starving and he would have to bend over to get to his food, which would make his back feel like someone was stabbing it. Then he would have to actually take a bite and chew, and that would hurt both his lip and his jaw. Plus, one of his teeth was lose and he didn't want to run the risk of losing it.

So he had to sit here and stare at the food in front of him all the while knowing he couldn't eat it.

"You gonna eat that or what?" Race asked.

Spot frowned at him, which, of course, made his mouth hurt. "I'll eat it when I'm damn well ready to," he snapped, happy to have something to vent his anger on.

Race gave him an amused look. "Well, I can hear your stomach rumbling over here, so I would say that you are damn well ready to now." Race hooked one foot on top of the other and grinned.

Spot made a rude hand gesture at him and Race laughed. "What's it to you whether I eat or not?"

"Your mouth that sore?"

Spot gave him a dirty look. "Who said anything about my mouth being sore?" Race raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Spot leaned forward quickly and snatched up the sandwich, making a show out of taking a big bite.

His back felt like it was on fire and the dampness on his chin no doubt meant that his lip was bleeding again. It was taking all of his willpower to keep chewing when what he really wanted to do was spit the food out and curse a blue streak. But chew he did, and eventually he swallowed, forcing himself not to wince.

"Well that showed me," Race said sardonically as he handed over a napkin. "Press that against your lip or you'll be throwing up from swallowing too much blood next."

Spot snatched the napkin and held it to his mouth, happy to have a reason not to take another bite.

"I don't know why you put up with it," Race said with a shake of his head.

"I didn't ask for your opinion." Spot shifted again. He didn't want to listen to Race's lectures again. He knew damn well that things were bad. He was the one getting beat every day, wasn't he? He scowled, thinking that things would have been easier if he had never met Race in the first place. Then he never would have had a reason to spit in Lefty's eye. Not that he needed one, come to think of it.

"No, you didn't."

"So stop giving it to me." Spot wasn't about to turn tail and run. Not when it meant leaving Brooklyn, the only home he had even known. He was born in Brooklyn and, by God, he was going to die in Brooklyn. And no pissant bastard like Lefty was going to change his mind on that subject.

"Can't do that, Spot." Race laced his finger behind his head. "You know I pride myself on always speaking my mind."

"Since when?"

"Since you stopped using yours."

"I use mine plenty," Spot grumbled.

Race chuckled. "Then something's gone wrong with it."

"Says you."

"Says anyone." Race closed one eye and squinted at Spot out of the other one. He frowned and then darted forward and snatched the cap off of Spot's head.

"Hey!" Spot glared at him. "That's mine."

"So?" Race grinned lazily at him, as he arranged the cap on his head to his liking, blocking the sun. He leaned back on his arms and let his head drop back.

Spot stared at the long line of Race's neck and swallowed, his mouth going suddenly going dry. He frowned, the motion once again tugging at his split lip and giving his voice an edge when he said, "What happened to your cap, anyway?"

"I think Skittery took it."

Race opened his mouth but Spot wasn't interested in anything that Race might have to say about the Manhattan newsies, so he kicked at Race's legs. "Don't even think about keeping it. That's my favorite cap."

Race snorted. "It's your only cap."

Spot touched the tear in his lower lip tentatively with his tongue. It stung a little, but nothing too bad. "Even more reason for you not to get attached to it."

Race made a face. "I ain't no thief, you'll get it back." Spot nodded, which make his head feel like it was splitting open. He tried to control his reaction to the pain, but he must have failed because Race said, "You still hurting?"

"Not much," Spot lied.

Race gave him an amused look. "Which is Spot speak for 'a whole hell of a lot.'"

Spot laughed. "Damn it, Race, don't make me do that!" he pressed a hand to his side.

"Those boys worked you over," Race said flatly. "I don't care if you did break Poole's leg."

"So what if they did,"

"You ain't going to survive to see next winter at this rate."

"Sure I will."

Race balled up the butcher paper resting in his lap and tossed it over the side of the dock. "You know how I feel about this."

Spot wondered why, when Race already knew what Spot thought about how Race felt, he didn't just find something else to talk about. Because there were plenty of other things Spot would rather talk to Race about. "Yeah, I do. And don't go saying it again. I ain't leaving Brooklyn."

"Don't be such a pigheaded fool," Race snapped.

"I'm not."

"The hell you ain't."

"Just 'cause you don't like my choice don't make it a bad one." Spot folded his arms over his stomach and glared at Race.

Race gave him wide eyes. "You can't honestly believe that," he said incredulous.

"It just so happens I do."

"Christ. You really think you are going to be able to ride this out, don't you?" Race took a deep breath and adjusted the cap on his head.

"Things ain't that bad," Spot said defensively. "I can hold my own in a fight."

"Which is why you keep showing up with a busted lip and a pair of shiners."

Spot knew Race had a point, but he wasn't about to admit it. Brooklyn was his home, and he wasn't about to let some bum chase him out of it – especially over who he was friends with. He cleared his throat. "It's only a matter of time before things come around for me. Lefty, he's already making mistakes. He sent Mac and Butcher over to the docks without back up and the pair of them got roughed up pretty bad. Couple of toughs trying to move in on our turf. And Lefty, he didn't do a thing about it. Stupid. You don't send your boys out unprotected and then let the bastards who soaked 'em get off without a word of protest."

Race cocked his head to the side. "That's your plan? Wait until Lefty makes a mess of things and then lead some sort of mutiny?"

Spot didn't like the way Race made his plan sound like something out of a dime store novel, but he nodded anyway. "More or less. You got a better one?"

"Having a couple of angry kids on your side is nice and all, Spot, but does it actually do anything for you when you're getting soaked?"

Hell, at this point Spot would give anything to have a couple of angry kids on his side. Right now all he had was bitter mutterings and the hope that sometime soon things were going to brighten up for him. Not that he was going to be telling Race that.

"You got to look at the long view," Spot insisted. "Things will start off small, but then they will grow. A couple of kids is all I got now, but give me time. You'll see. I just need Lefty to make a few more mistakes and then I'll make my move."

"Make your move?" Race scoffed. "You can barely walk." He shook his head in disgust. "By the time Lefty fouls up bad enough for you to make any use of it, you'll be dead."

"Naw." Spot pressed his back firmly into the support beam and glanced out over the water. "Lefty ain't going to kill me."

"You don't know Lefty like I do," Race muttered darkly.

"You're making too much of this."

Race gave him a pointed look. "Am I?"

"Lefty ain't going to kill me," Spot repeated forcefully. He was tired of this conversation, sick of Race's badgering, and not being able to talk about anything that mattered as far as Race was concerned.

"What makes you think he ain't?"

"Why would he? All I ever did was rub his nose in the fact that I don't like him. You don't kill a body over something like that."

"He damned well tried to kill me over something just as pointless." Race balled his hands into fists.

"You took his money." Spot lifted a shoulder. "More than one person has been found with his head bashed in over money."

"It was fifty cents. A lousy half dollar." Race's face was dark with emotion. "And I counted Lefty as my friend before I fleeced him. Who would try and kill a friend over a measly fifty cents?"

"Fifty cents?" Spot stared at him in utter amazement. "That's what was behind all your trouble with the bum?" he shook his head. "Hell, I figured you'd taken him for at least two dollars."

"Well, now you know." Race picked at a lose thread on the cuff of his britches. "And you have to see my side of it."

"I don't have to see nothing."

Race sighed. "I was telling Jack…"

"You were telling Jack what?" Spot cut in, angrily. He didn't like the idea of Race babbling about his personal problems to anyone, let alone Jacky-boy. Spot could just picture the two of them sitting in some corner somewhere wondering what they ought to do to help out poor Spot Conlon. He felt a sharp burn as his lips lifted into a sneer and for once welcomed the pain.

Race gave him a beseeching look. "Look, you are having a hard time of it in Brooklyn. I know I've told you to leave before and you're right when you said you didn't have no where to go. So I talked to Jack about it, and he said that it would do us all good to have a fella like you around." Race paused and held one hand out in supplication. "Come to Manhattan, Spot. The boys all like you and you'd have a place to sleep without worrying about what might come at you during the night."

For a moment Spot was tempted. The idea of living with Race held a lot of appeal. But leaving Brooklyn wasn't an option. He had too much invested here. This was where he planned on making his name for himself. Brooklyn, not Manhattan. Even if Jack wasn't the de facto leader, he still wouldn't want to head over the bridge. And he certainly wasn't going to make the trek over to Manhattan with his hat held out, begging for shelter like some sort of helpless street kid.

Spot narrowed his eyes at Race and tilted back his head. "What makes you think I want to come to Manhattan?"

"Nothing." Race lowered his hand and ran a finger along the graining of the wood. "I won't expect you to just up and leave Brooklyn for no reason, but even you have got to admit that things ain't sweet for you and Manhattan, well, it's a nice enough place, once you get use to it."

"Get use to it?" Spot gave Race a skeptical look.

Race shrugged. "Sure, you get to know you way around the boys and what's the best way to get what you want, and before you know it you are one of the group."

"I don't want to be one of the group," Spot sneered.

Race looked up at him and shook his head. "Fine, then don't be. You can be your typically pleasant self and see what that gets you."

"I don't think you are hearing what I am saying," Spot said slowly. "I ain't going to Manhattan. Not now, not never."

"What's wrong with Manhattan?" Race glared at him.

Nothing, really, other than the fact that it wasn't Brooklyn. Not that Spot could say that. Spot made a show of crossing his arms over his chest. "Manhattan ain't got no backbone," he pronounced each word deliberately. It was true, in a way. The Manhattan boys seemed to be willing to do whatever was easiest.

"The hell it doesn't!" Race flared up, just like Spot knew he would.

Spot was spoiling for a fight, and he knew that Race would oblige him. He was sick to death of getting beat all to hell and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. But Race, he could shout at Race. He could scream till he was blue in the face, and Race wouldn't do more than curse right back at him.

He let his mouth twist slightly down and studied his nails. "No leader, no rules. Never bothering to sticking up for itself or staking claim to what belongs to it. That's not a group I want in on."

Race jutted his chin out and glared at Spot. "We don't need no bully boy bossing us around. We don't need no list of cans and can'ts. We damned well stick up for ourselves. And you're damned lucky to be offered the chance to be one of us."

"I don't want to be one of you. Don't you understand that?" Spot gave Race a cold look. "I got to look after myself. I ain't like you, Race. I don't run from my problems."

Race lurked to his feet, hands clenched at his sides. "Take that back," he hissed.

Spot gave him a lazy grin. "Don't think I will."

Race tugged off Spot's cap and threw it at him. It smacked into Spot's cheek, stinging more than it should have, and fell into his lap. Spot flicked the brim of it, his eyes never leaving Race's.

Race's face got steadily darker and his voice was strained when he said, "I didn't run away from anything."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Spot's tone was cavalier. "He gave you a hard time and Mouse didn't want to deal with the hassle of having you two going at it."

"You don't know squat."

Spot smirked at Race. "I know enough."

"Think so?" Race took a step forward and dropped to his haunches, his face inches away from Spot's. He ran his tongue along the bottom of his teeth and gave Spot a hard stare. Spot blinked, suddenly finding it hard to meet Race's eye. Race nodded as if he had proved a point and said, "Lefty came after me with a lead pipe. Split my head open." His hand went reflexively to a spot near the nape of his neck, fingers running up and down. "He caught me by surprise. I didn't know what had happened. One minute I was walking down an alley smoking my cigar and the next I was waking up in Manhattan with a boy I don't know telling me not to sit up."

Spot's mouth was suddenly dry. He shifted his gaze, studying the stitching on Race's shirt.

Race continued in the same flat tone. "I was out for three days. Jack said that not even the doctor thought I would make it. And Mouse, who I thought was my friend, had me dragged over to the Manhattan lodging house when I was so out of my mind I didn't even know what was happening. He left me there with nothing more than a warning not to come back."

Spot cleared his throat. "So when you say that Lefty tried to kill you. . ." he trailed off at the bitter look on Race's face.

"He left me for dead. Over fifty cents."

"And Mouse just. . ."

"Yeah, Mouse just let him."

Spot's brow furrowed. "Then why did he let you sell at Sheepshead? If he warned you away from Brooklyn, why let you come back at all?"

Race lifted a shoulder as he straightened. He walked over to the edge of the pier and stared across the water at the Manhattan shoreline. "Guilt, I guess."

Spot gave a wry laugh. "Guilt." He shook his head. "Not much a leader after all, was he?"

Race's hand went back to the spot at the back of his head. His shoulders hunched and Spot wished that he could see Race's expression. "A leader ain't nothing special."

Spot shook his head, not caring that Race couldn't see him. "You're wrong about that."

Race whirled around and pinned him with a stare. "Oh yeah? Tell me, Spot, what has a leader ever done for you?"

"Mouse took me in." Spot winced, that sounded weak even to him.

Race's lips twitched up in a cruel smile. "Odds are you had something he wanted."

Spot picked up his cap and studied it, trying not to think of Race bleeding in an alley and the fact that no one was around to send him off somewhere safe to recover. He touched his split lip with his tongue, feeling the damage as best he could, and carefully placed his cap on his head.

"Mouse kept you alive the best way he knew how," he finally said.

Race snorted. "Mouse didn't want to have to deal with a dead body on his hands."

"I didn't say he had anything other than his own skin in mind when he did it."

"You bet he didn't."

Spot went on as if Race hadn't spoken. "But he kept you alive all the same. And you owe him for that."

"I don't own the bastard anything," Race shot back.

Spot shook his head. "You can say anything you like but that don't make it true." Race said nothing, staring out over the water and Spot scowled. "So Jacky-boy took you in when Mouse chucked you out, did he?"

Race nodded and then frowned. "Not Jack, Kloppman. He's a good man, Kloppman. He gave me a bunk and made sure that I had someone to look after me. And he didn't ask for a cent the whole month it took me to get back on my feet."

"A saint, for sure," Spot injected some of his pent-up resentment into the words. Well, that explained why he was so damned loyal to Manhattan.

Race's eyes narrowed at him. "Why you in such a foul mood?"

"Why do you think?" Spot exploded. He thought about all the little comments Lefty's boys dropped as they pounded on him, the way Race's name got bantered around the Brooklyn lodging house like a bad headline, and the resentment he felt every time Race started in on him again.

He pushed himself to his feet, cursing loudly at the way his body protested the movement. "I'm black and blue and can't do a damned thing about it. My papes are like rats, ain't nobody want one, and every time I see you you're harping on me to turn tail and run. So excuse me if I'm not whistling Dixie."

"I told you to get on Lefty's good side," Race said with a knowing expression. "I told you life would be hell if you kept giving him guff."

"Ah, for the love of . . ." Spot threw his hands up in the air. "Don't start giving me a ration, Racetrack."

Race raised his eye brows and pursed his lips. "I'll do what I damn well want to."

"Then you damn well better want to shut up."

"Or what?" Race jeered.

Spot took a step towards him, ignoring the pain that shot up his leg. "Or I'll make you."

Race laughed, his head going back so that the sunlight hit his neck and threw his jaw into sharp relief. A vein pulsed at the base of Race's neck and something deep in Spot went tight at the sight. He swallowed, forcing his eyes away.

"Sure you will," Race replied, still chuckling. "And I'll make sure to stand still so that you don't hurt yourself in the process."

Spot wanted to wipe that smug look off of Race's face and so he struck out with the thing he knew would upset Race the most. "At least I fight my own fights," he said nastily. "I ain't a coward like you are." He didn't think for one minute that Race was a coward, but he knew calling him one would get his back up faster than anything.

Race's eyes flashed and for a moment Spot thought that Race would soak him. He shifted his weight, bracing his feet apart, readying himself for the attack. But instead Race just shook his head and turned his back on Spot.

"You ain't worth it," Race muttered as he started to walk away.

This wasn't at all going the way Spot had planned. Race wasn't supposed to be walking out on him. Race was the closest friend he had. He couldn't afford to lose him. Sure, Race was angry with him, but that was the point. They would spar a little, maybe roll around on the pier a bit and then –

His brain stuttered, refusing to let him finish that thought.

"I ain't done with you," Spot called after him, his thoughts running in circles. Race ignored him and Spot took a hesitant step in Race's direction. "Damn it, Race, don't you walk away from me!"

Race kept on walking on down the dock and, no matter what Spot yelled after him, he never once looked back.


	8. Moving Up In The World

Moving Up In The World

_March 28, 1898_

Spot paused at the landing outside of the bunkroom and contemplated the door before taking a deep breath and pushing it open. His eyes scanned the room and instantly found Race sitting at the corner table with Blink, Mush, Dutchy, Crutchy and, of course, Jack. As he watched, Jack leaned over and whispered something in Race's ear.

Race's laugh rolled through the room, making Spot scowl. Just what he needed, Race and Jacky-boy chumming up together. He made an effort to arrange his features into a more pleasant expression and started out across the room. Spot nodded to a few of the Manhattan boys as he made his way over to Race's side.

When he reached Race, Spot cleared his throat and Race glanced up and then away. Spot frowned. Race was still sore then. He shifted so that he was standing directly behind Race and leaned forward over his shoulder. "Been a long time, hasn't it," Spot said casually, glancing down at the cards in Race's hand.

"Not nearly long enough," Race answered. Spot forced a laughed and kicked Race's chair. "Leave me alone, I'm busy," Race said out of the side of his mouth.

"Might as well talk to me, Race. You ain't going to win with that hand," Spot smirked, bravado in place. "All you got is a pair of twos."

Race turned around in his seat and punched Spot's side. "Shove off and die," he growled, throwing his cards down.

"Nice to know that you missed me," Spot said with a crooked smile.

"What's a matter, eh, not getting enough beatings at home?" Race challenged.

Spot fought back a bitter surge of anger and smiled thinly at him. "I've had a change of fortune."

"Ain't that nice." Race faced the table again and crossed his arms over his chest.

Spot studied the back of Race's head, trying to think of the best way to smooth out this situation. He pursed his lips and decided to stick with what he did best. "Walk with me a ways, Racetrack. I've got some things to tell you."

"In case you didn't notice, I'm in the middle of something here."

Spot leaned over Race's shoulder and stage whispered, "Seems to me that you're out."

Laughter broke out at the table and Jack reached over from the far side of Race to slap Spot good naturedly on the back. Race gave Jack a dirty look and then glowered at the rest of the table. Crutchy was the only one who seemed to notice, his face going apologetic instantly.

"Ah, go on, get out of here," Jack said with a wave of his hand, lit cigarette trailing ash in its wake.

"Yeah, give someone else a chance to win," Blink piped up.

Spot chuckled. "You out of excuses yet, Race?"

Race made a rude noise before pushing his chair back. "A fine bunch of friends you are," he said darkly.

"Better than you deserve," Dutchy called out playfully, tipping his chair back as he laughed.

"Don't see why you're laughing," Race quipped. "You ain't won a damn thing all night and my leaving ain't going change your luck none."

Dutchy's chair hit the ground with a thud and he tossed his hair out of his eyes. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Jack cut in. "Just run along with Spot, why don't you, Race? Give the rest of us a break from the tongue of yours."

Race managed to convey how put-upon he felt with a single, drawn out sigh. He stood slowly and shifted his weight as he placed one hand flat on the table. Spot decided that he wasn't in the mood for whatever speech Race was about to give, so he tipped his hat at the boys while leaning in front of Race to say, "Nice seeing you fellas," and tossed an open box of cigarettes onto the table. "Enjoy a smoke on me."

They scrambled for possession of the box and Spot nodded as he took a firm hold on Race's upper arm. "Come on," he said softly, leading the other boy to the door. "We've got a lot to talk about."

Race's eyes were narrowed as he said, "Since when have you got cigarettes to be tossing around?"

"Not now." Spot gave Race's arm a final squeeze and then dropped it. He walked through the door and out into the stairwell, and took the stairs down two at a time, not stopping the smile from forming on his face. Life was good.

Well, life would be good as soon as he settled this beef with Race. With that in mind, Spot glanced over his shoulder. Race's face still looked like a thundercloud. He was muttering under his breath and all but stomping down the stairs. Spot was tempted to wink at him again just to hear the explosion that would follow.

Practicing restraint was becoming second nature to him now, so it was no problem ignoring the urge. He wasn't about to sour things further. At least not until he had a chance to straighten them out first. Then Spot would be free to ruffle Race up a little. It had been a while since he had been free to give as good as he got, and Race wouldn't mind.

Spot pushed open the front door and waited for Race on the steps, eyes scanning the street. Not too many people out this late on a Sunday. He pushed the cap lower on his head to shade his eyes from the light of the sinking sun. It was nearly dusk now, but the streets would be half in shadows for at least two hours. More than enough time for what Spot had in mind.

He just had to figure out a place the two of them could go. Race stopped next to him, arm casually knocking into Spot's side. Spot gave him a smug look, letting Race know that he wasn't fussed by the action.

Race cleared his throat. "So, you wanted to talk?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"I ain't about to conduct my business while standing on a stoop."

Race gave him an annoyed look. "Ain't fancy enough for you?"

"I'm Spot Conlon. Manhattan's City Hall ain't fancy enough for me," Spot deadpanned.

Race laughed, like Spot knew he would but then he elbowed Spot a little bit too hard to be considered friendly. "You and that ego of yours. Don't know how you manage to fit through the front door, as puffed up as you are."

Pride swelled Spot's chest. "I got reason."

"Sure you do," Race chuckled, moving down the steps. "I'm hungry. Let's get some chow."

Spot trailed after him, he wasn't particularly hungry, but he didn't have a better idea about where to go. Besides, a little food in Race's belly could only help so far as Spot could see. He let Race pick a direction and followed along in a companionable silence for a few blocks, happy to be walking with his friend. He licked his lips and considered apologizing then thought better of it. He would explain things to Race in his own way. If Race was still holding a grudge about a little name calling once he had done that, well there would be plenty of time to say sorry then.

Race glanced around the near empty street. "Where do you want to go?"

Spot lifted a shoulder. He had no idea. Manhattan wasn't his turf and he had a pretty decent idea of what Race's reaction to being asked to cross the bridge would be. He ran his tongue around his teeth and said, "I thought you said you were hungry. You want to go to Tibby's?"

Race shook his head. "Not in the mood." He glanced up at the sun. "You ain't afraid of being out after dark are you?"

Spot made a disgusted noise.

"Thought as much," Race replied with a nod. "Come on, then. I'll take you somewhere nice."

Spot was instantly suspicious. "What do you mean by nice?"

"What do you think I mean?" Race's voice was an indignant squawk. "Nice." He gave Spot a wide eyed stare. "You know, friendly. With good food and girls you don't mind looking at serving it."

Spot reluctantly nodded. "All right, I'm game. But don't make me regret it."

Race rolled his eyes. "Listen to you, acting the boss."

Spot grinned again, happy in his private knowledge. He was the boss. Not of Brooklyn, not yet. But it was only a matter of time. And wouldn't the look on Race's face be to die for when that happened. Spot mentally shook himself. There would be time for gloating later. Right now he had to patch things up.

"Been a long time," he finally said as they dodged a crowd of street kids chasing after a stray cat with some cans tied to its tail.

"Said that before," was Race's reply.

"'Cause it's true."

"'Course it's true. I made a point of not trekking out to Sheepshead."

"I noticed," Spot said dryly. "Hard not to, actually."

"Poor little Spot, forced to sell all on his own," Race singsonged.

Spot laughed. "Poor little Race, forced to spend all his time on his own."

"I wasn't on my own."

A knot of jealousy tightened in Spot's stomach. "Find a new selling partner?" he asked casually.

Race laughed. "Naw. I told you, I like to work on my own. Selling with you being the exception, seeing as how you don't take no for an answer. I just meant the boys. Being in Manhattan during the day meant that I spent more time with them. Not a bad deal, actually."

It was a logical answer, and Spot knew he had more important matters to be dealing with, but he couldn't let the subject drop without saying, "Spending more time with Jack then?"

Race nodded. "Of course. You know Jack's the best of the bunch. Man, the times we've been having." He flashed Spot a wicked grin. "That Jack gets the best ideas. Just last night we were up at Medda's. She has this new girl--" Race let out a whistle and shook his head. "I tell you what, Spot, how about we mosey on up there? I'll bet you a nickel you've never seen a finer pair of ankles than the ones on Betsy."

Spot scowled. "I ain't interested in no ankles."

Race shrugged. "Your loss."

Spot easily gauged Race's tone and let out a breath. Race was still irked at him. It was clear in the stiff line of his body and the unfriendly edge in his voice Spot noted, rubbing at his own left wrist -- it was still sore from when he jammed it in his fight with Freckles last week.

"You hurt there?"

"Just a bit sore. Caught it wrong when I busted open someone's jaw."

Race ran his eyes over Spot. "You're looking better these days."

"I told you, I'm a changed man," Spot preened, happy that Race had noticed. It had been a ways since Race had seen him, and as much as he hated to admit it, Spot had been bothered by the fact that Race hadn't acknowledged the fact that Spot wasn't black and blue before now.

With that thought in mind, he said, "So what's with you and your prolonged absence from Brooklyn?"

"Prolonged?"

"I said it."

"I know, I have ears."

Spot suppressed a smile. He had missed this. "Just answer the question."

"I don't go where I ain't welcome," Race said evenly.

Spot noticed the way Race's shoulders seemed to tighten and shook his head. "Who said you ain't welcome in Brooklyn?"

Race rolled his eyes. "I don't need to be told. Unlike some fellas, I know when I'm not wanted."

"'Some fellas' being me?"

Race raised one hand as if to say _if the shoe fits_. Spot gave him a tight smile. Race cocked his head to the side and grinned. "Spot, the last time I saw you, you were screaming at my back. And if that ain't enough reason not to come around, well then maybe I just ain't in the mood to catch anyone's eye, if you understand what I'm saying."

"Lefty," Spot said bluntly, ignoring the comment directed at him. "Race, you don't have any reason to be afraid of him."

Race scowled. "I didn't say I was afraid, now did I?"

Spot opened his mouth to say that Race had all but done so, but shut it again. He was patching things up and that meant ignoring what was best left alone. He nodded. "You didn't at that."

Race rubbed his chin. "You ain't trying to sweet talk me into coming back there are you?"

"Course not," Spot lied.

He cursed inwardly. This was going to be tougher than he thought. He wanted to ask outright if Race had kept away because of Lefty or if he was using the bum as an excuse for avoiding Spot after the things he had said. But Spot couldn't think of a smooth way of doing that and he didn't want Race thinking too hard about how much Spot had missed him. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Where are we heading?"

"You'll see when we get there."

Spot snorted and rolled his eyes, but he was pleased with the way Race's eyes were dancing and the familiar half smile on the other boy's face.

* * *

Race twisted to avoid stepping in a pile of horse droppings and then quickly turned down an alley. He heard Spot mutter a curse and gave him a wide smile over his shoulder. Spot's face was a picture of disgust and he was shaking his left leg. Right in the horse shit, then. Race laughed. Served the cocky bastard right.

He wasn't surprised that Spot had showed up. If he was honest, Race had to admit that he was pleased. Three months, give or take, of him not making the trip and here Spot was, hat in his hand, wondering why. It didn't matter what Spot said to the contrary, Race knew why Spot was here: to get Race back out to Sheephead. And Race would be damned if he didn't get Spot to say it outright before the evening was over. Race's lips curved up as he pictured the grudging look on Spot's face when he finally made his apologies.

He glanced at the colorful awnings and tried to remember exactly where the little store was located. Race squinted, wishing that he could read the foreign words soaped on the windows. Then he saw it, the bright red and green checked patterned awning that marked the Italian market.

Stepping confidently up to the door, he gave Spot a cheeky grin. "This is the place," he said as he pushed it open. A bell chimed as he entered the dark interior and began to walk up to the long counter.

They had passed two tall shelves jam-packed with all sorts of strange items before Spot stopped Race with a hand on his shoulder. "Where the hell did you bring me?" Spot somehow managed to make even a whisper menacing.

Race gave him a sunny smile. "You'll like this."

"I'll like what?"

"Just trust me." Race shifted so that Spot's hand fell away and began to move toward the counter again.

Spot cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable, but he followed Race up to the counter and didn't say a word of protest. Race leaned one arm on the scarred surface and scanned the words written in chalk across the blackened section of the back wall as if he actually understood their meaning.

A few minutes passed before the wrinkled old woman he remembered from his previous trips appeared, whipping her hands on her apron.

"Sarò di destra là" she said. Race grinned and nodded, having absolutely no idea what the string of words meant. She puttered around in a corner and then came up the counter with a pad and a thick nub pencil. "Sì?"

Race gave her a wide smile and tugged on his cap. He tapped on the counter and said one of the few words of Italian that he knew. "Speciale." He held up two fingers. "Two."

"Speciale," she repeated and Race nodded. "Due."

"Two." Race pointed at Spot and then himself. "Two."

She smiled and let out a long string of words, none of which Race understood. Race kept his smile firmly in place and nodded again. "Two," he repeat and pulled out his coin bag. "How much?"

She held up four fingers and said something even longer than the last time.

"Four cents then," Race said, hoping he had got the right amount. He dug out the coins and laid them on the counter one at a time. She watched him and then nodded, scooping them up and deposited them in a till at the end of the counter.

The woman waved at hand towards the side door and began to talk again. She paused and looked at Race expectantly. He nodded and smiled, pretending like he could make sense of the babble coming out of her mouth. She nodded, clearly satisfied, and then bustled out of the room.

Race turned towards Spot. "Come on."

"What was that about?"

"I ordered up some food. She's going back to place the order and one of the girls will be out with it when it's ready."

Spot peered at him, "You understood that?"

Race gave him a superior look. "Of course. You coming or what?"

"Might as well." Spot didn't sound happy. Race beamed at him. "What sort of food did you order anyway?"

"You'll see."

"Ah, don't give me that." Spot kicked at Race, but Race easily avoided him. "What did you order?"

"I said you'll see. And you will. So shut up and come along outside." Race moved towards the side door. He already knew where he wanted to sit. There was a table right under a large tree that he liked the look of. Race made his way to the table and pulled out a chair. "Nice, ain't it?"

Spot glanced up at the tree and then pulled out his own chair and settled down. He ran a finger along the red and white lines of the table cloth and nodded, a soft expression on his face. "Nice," he agreed.

"So, we're somewhere quiet."

"Yeah?"

"You gonna tell me this news of yours?"

Spot grinned. "Yeah."

He cleared his throat importantly and Race thought he could see the boy's chest swelling with pride. Spot made a show of making himself comfortable, pulling off his cap and setting it on the table, tucking his cane neatly against the side of his chair and fussing with the way his cuffs lay on his bony wrists.

Race shook his head in amusement. "Just get on with it."

"Don't rush me," Spot chided, shifting in his chair and resting his arms on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat again and said, "I've got my own crew."

Race waited. Nothing followed. "And?"

Spot frowned. Clearly that was supposed to have impressed. Race smothered a smile as Spot pressed his lips together and then took a breath. "You remember Mac, right?" He waited for Race to nod. "Well he was the first. Said Lefty was plum crazy and that even a dog would be better than him."

Race snickered. "So you were that dog then, were you?"

Spot glared at him. "I ain't done," he snapped.

Race waved apologetically. "Go on."

"After Mac came Paddy and Ginger. I wasn't sure about Ginger, he was always in tight with Lefty, but Paddy's a good man to have beside you in a fight and they being brothers and all . . ." Spot leaned back in his chair and looked smug.

"Paddy's worth two of Ginger," Race said. He always had liked Paddy.

Spot shrugged. "Anyway, there were only the three for a ways, but then Butcher and Poole came over to my side and they brought Bits with them."

"Wait," Race interrupted. "Butcher and Poole?"

Spot gave a lazy smile and Race suspected that his reaction had pleased Spot. "Came over to my way of thinking."

"But I thought you all but broke Poole's leg."

Spot nodded. "I did."

"And?"

"And they came over anyway."

"Spot," Race warned. Spot grinned unrepentantly at him and Race knew that he was getting his comeuppance for not being properly impressed by Spot's news the first time around. Race made a face and said, "Out with it."

"Well, you remember how I popped Poole in the leg?" Spot paused and looked expectantly at Race.

"Clearly," Race muttered.

"It got all black and blue, right?" Again he paused. Race made the appropriate noises and Spot continued. "It was clear to anyone with eyes that Poole needed a doctor and bad. But Lefty, he gets all bent out of shape over it. Says that Poole was being an idiot and he, Lefty that is, wasn't about to shell out his money on some boy acting the fool."

Race felt his jaw drop. "He didn't!"

Spot nodded. "You bet he did. Flat refused to pay."

"But he's the leader," Race said slowly. "That's his job."

"I told you he was making mistakes."

"That ain't no mistake! That's a crime, that's what it is."

"You ain't the only one that thinks like that," Spot said slyly, laying one finger against his nose.

Race burst out laughing at the sight and Spot scowled at him. Thankfully, one of the girls came through the half door before Race could say anything. She had two bowls heaped high on one arm and a pitcher of a deep amber liquid in the other. She gave them a shy smile as she set her load down and fished two glasses from her apron pocket. A fork was then placed next to each bowl and with another small smile, she turned and left them.

Race leaned over his bowl breathing deeply. It smelled like heaven. He closed his eyes, a wide grin spreading across his face. He reached for the pitcher and poured himself a glass of the tea. Then he licked his lips and brought the cup up for a long drink. He smacked his lips together in appreciation and glanced at Spot.

Spot was bent over his bowl, frowning at the pasta that he was prodding with his fork. "Tea?" Race asked.

Spot glanced up and nodded, shoving his cup forward. "What is this?"

Race took the cup and filled it. "Just eat it."

"Not until you tell me what it is."

Race sighed. "Tortellini in alfreado sauce."

"Torta-whata?"

"Tortellini. Stuffed pasta. It's good." Race took a big bite and tried not to sigh at the deliciousness of the dish. "See?" he said with his mouth full.

"You look like a pig."

"And you smell like one. Go on, eat."

Spot stabbed one shell with his fork and carried it to eye level. He studied it for a long moment and then brought it to his nose. He sniffed delicately and then his tongue flashed out and he licked the sauce off of the pasta. Race swallowed, his eyes riveted on Spot's mouth.

Spot licked the pasta again, slower this time, and then grinned. He opened his mouth and took a bite. "Good," he said licking the sauce from his lips. "Real good."

Race reached for his cup and took a big gulp. It did nothing to ease the dryness of his mouth. "Sure is," he croaked as he watched Spot licking the sauce off of another piece of pasta. He hurried and took another bite of his food, determined not to stare.

"So, like I was saying," Spot said between licks, "Poole's leg was all swelled up and Lefty was being his typical bastard self, so I says to myself, something has to be done. And I do it. I pay the doctor's bill, that bloodsucking leech, and he comes and fixes what's wrong with Poole's leg."

"You what!?" a chewed up piece of tortellini flew out of Race's mouth and onto the table. He flicked it onto the ground.

Spot laughed at him. "I paid the bill. Made sense. After all, I'm the one who busted Poole's leg."

"Where'd you get the money for that?"

"You'd have more than enough to do the same if you weren't wasting it all on those damn horses of yours," Spot said coolly. He stabbed three pieces of pasta and took a large bite.

"Why you always got to be carping on my horses?"

Spot waved off the comment. "When word got out about me fixing up Poole a bunch of the fellas said that they wouldn't go after me no more. And then Lefty worked himself up into a state and busted a few heads and they've been coming over to my side in droves since then."

"Droves?" Race couldn't hide his amusement.

Spot gave him a dark look that was ruined by a smudge of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Race wiped his own mouth with the back of his hand and snickered. "What's funny?" Spot demanded.

Race just shook his head. "So, how many boys are we talking here?"

"About twenty of the boys that sleep in the lodging house and a good fifty of the ones that don't."

Race whistled. "Christ, Spot, you got yourself a regular mutiny."

Spot grinned. "It's only a matter of time," he intoned.

Race caught his lower lip between his teeth and sucked on his teeth. "You need to watch your back."

"You don't need to tell me that."

Race took another bite and then said, "You still sleeping at the lodging house?"

Spot laughed. "I ain't stupid. Me and the boys have been camping out at the docks."

Race nodded at that. "Smart move. Lefty would have a hard time sneaking up on you there. And it ain't so bad, sleeping outside in the summer."

"Better than sleeping inside, I say."

Race took a breath. "But come winter . . ."

"I ain't planning on being on the docks come winter."

"Just cause you don't plan it don't mean it won't happen."

"I can guarantee you that I ain't gonna be out on those docks this fall, let alone winter. Things are going to come to a head any day now, Race. I've got my goals in sight."

Race took a sip of his tea. He watched as Spot ate, trying to figure out what motivated him. Being leader seemed to matter to Spot. Matter more than anything else in his life. Race couldn't imagine caring about something so much that he was willing to take a beating for it or fork over a price sum of money to see it come about. But Spot was. And Race had to admire that.

* * *

Spot licked the last of the sauce off of his fork and then set it down with a contented sigh. Race had been right, for all the food looked like something not fit for a body to eat, it had tasted like a dream. He reached for his cup and took a long drink, wondering what his next move should be.

He studied Race's expression as the other boy ate, trying to decide which words to use. Spot scratched the side of his neck and suppressed a sigh. It wasn't his style to apologize. He didn't say sorry, no matter how much he may mean it, but then nothing about his friendship with Race followed his rules, so why should he be surprised that this part was different too?

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Spot began, "You ain't sore at me are you?" and winced. That was exactly the opposite of what he had planned to say. Race gave him an amused look and Spot glowered at him as if it was Race's fault his brain had betrayed him.

"Why would I be sore?" Race cocked his head to the side, a smile tugging at his lips.

Spot narrowed his eyes at Race's smug look. Just like Race to play this out for all it was worth. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why are you staying away from Sheepshead?"

Race gave him a look. "I already told you."

"Sure you did." Spot ran his tongue along his teeth and did his best to win the smugger-than-you contest that Race had engaged him in.

Race pushed his chair back and then tipped it up on two legs. "Missed me, did you?"

Spot felt him smirk slip and he grabbed at his glass. Instead of his hand closing around it, however, it slammed into it, knocking it over. He cursed and quickly righted the glass before dabbing at the puddle of tea with his checkered napkin

"Real smooth of you, Spot," Race jeered.

Spot shot him a dirty look as he wrung out his soaked napkin over the roots of the tree. Nothing about today was working out as he had planned. He looked around, hoping to find something to do or say, anything to have to keep sitting across from Race and the condescending laughter in his eyes.

"I ain't sore," Race said almost too softly for Spot to hear.

"Then why ain't you been out at Sheepshead?" Spot bit his lip to keep from saying more.

Race shook his head and put his chair back on four legs. "Things ain't always about you. I've got my own skin to think of, you know."

Spot made a face. "I know that," he groused.

"Besides, what's it to you if I ain't selling at Sheepshead."

"You're my partner," Spot said, feeling stupid.

Race pushed his cap up on his head. "You do well enough on your own."

"It ain't the same on my own."

A wide grin spread over Race's face. "I knew you missed me."

Spot scowled at him. "Did I say that?"

"You didn't have to," Race crowed. "Why else would you be out here, all but begging me to come back?"

"I ain't begging," Spot protested, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.

"Yes, you are. Now shut up before I decided not to."

Spot opened his mouth and snapped it shut again. He'd got what he wanted, no matter how it might have come around. Race was coming back. Race would be selling with _him_, not Jacky-boy. And that meant that his plans had some likelihood of coming to fruition after all.


	9. All You Want In Life

All You Want In Life

_June 3, 1898_

"Drink up," Spot said and slapped Race heartily on the back. "There's plenty more where that came from."

Race raised his glass in salute and then downed the content. He cleared his throat and grinned, motioning at his empty cup. "I'll have more now," he said, his words ever so slightly slurred.

"Mac, get your sorry self over here and fill up my friend's cup," Spot roared over his shoulder.

Race gave him a sloppy smile. "You certainly have taken to this leader thing, Spot my boy."

Spot took in the rosy glow on Race's cheeks and the slightly vacant look in his eyes and gave him a satisfied smile. Getting Race drunk wasn't the point of the evening, but it certainly wouldn't hurt things. He crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chin up, smirking. "I told you not to worry about Lefty, didn't I?"

"Ah, well, I thought that was just you blowing smoke.'

"You thought wrong." Spot made a face

"Obviously," Race watched as a stick of a boy poured some more of the amber liquid into his cup. He nodded at him and took a drink.

"Leave the bottle," Spot ordered as he leaned back in his chair.

"Sure thing, Spot," Mac said with a grin.

Race glanced blearily about the room, his eyes resting on the stacks of empty bottles. "Where you get the money for this, Spot?"

"Not your concern, Race," Spot followed Race gaze and his smile vanished.

Race glanced back at him and laughed. "Come on, no secrets. We're friends, ain't we."

"Yeah, but that don't mean I'm going to tell you all about Brooklyn matters."

"I'm a Brooklyn boy myself," Race retorted, taking another long drink.

"You've been in Manhattan too long for that to fly," Spot said flatly. He was slightly surprised to find that the sting had gone out of that truth. When had that happened?

Race shook his head. "You can take the boy out of Brooklyn, but you can't take the Brooklyn out of the boy."

Spot snorted, not liking where the conversation was going. "How much have you had to drink there, Race?" he asked as if he hadn't just watched him down the contents of two bottles.

Race blinked. "My cup's always full."

"As it ought to be," Spot said as he quickly refilled Race's glass.

"So, you going to tell me or what?"

"You moving back to Brooklyn?" Spot deflected.

Race sighed. "I already said that I wasn't. Manhattan's my home now."

"Then don't expect me to be spilling Brooklyn's secrets with you." Spot jabbed at Race's side playfully.

"The power's already gone to your head," Race muttered sourly, rubbing the spot Spot had hit.

Spot pushed his cap back on his head and smirked. "You have no idea."

"Nor do I want to." Race tossed back his drink and tried to stand. He swayed slightly, and pressed his hands flat against the table to steady himself. "As nice as this has been, I have to be off."

"What?" Spot leaned forward in his chair. "You can't go now, the party has just started."

Race waved a hand at him. "I can do anything I want, Spot. You're not my leader."

"Thank God for that," Spot muttered, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.

Race gave Spot a look he couldn't properly interpret and then pushed away from the table, stumbling as he made his way through the crowd. Spot caught his bottom lip between his teeth and then cursed as he rose to follow his friend. He wove his way through the throngs of celebrating newsboys and caught up with Race at the door, shoving aside Paddy to stand next to him.

"Where do you think you are going?" he asked as he caught hold of the back of Race's coat.

"Home," Race said and struggled in a vain attempt to pull free. "I've had my fill of watching you crazy Irish boys drink."

"You say that like you aren't one of us." Spot shifted his grip from the back of Race's coat to his sleeve.

"I'm not."

"Higgins is a fine Irish name and you yourself admitted that you come from good Irish stock, on one side at least."

"My father was Irish. That don't mean that I am."

Spot rolled his eyes. "Of course it means that you are."

"Next you'll be expecting me to start speaking Gaelic and reminiscing about the old country," Race said derisively.

"Why would I want that?" Spot gave Race a funny look, not quite understanding where Race was going with this.

"And yet you go on and on about being Irish," Race said, tugging his arm free and starting down the stairs.

"You have a death wish," Spot muttered as he shoved his arm under Race's and across his shoulders to keep Race from tumbling down the steps. Maybe he did talk about being Irish. So what? It was just another part of him, something he could use to rally his boys around. He scowled; telling himself that he was happy Race wasn't one of them.

He glanced up at the sky and squinted against the glare of the setting sun. The clouds were high and fluffy, streaked with pink and gold. No rain then. Perfect. Spot tugged on Race's side, getting him to go left.

Race stumbled over a loose cobblestone and nearly wrenched Spot's shoulder trying to right himself. Spot bit back a curse and directed Race one, trying to keep an eye on the ground in front of the other boy as he helped him down the street. This was not how he had planned the night going.

"This isn't the way to the bridge," Race said his head swinging wildly from side to side.

"Sure isn't," Spot responded with a grunt as Race once again lost his step. He was starting to think that he didn't like Race when he was soused.

"I said I wanted to go home." Race began to struggle and Spot tightened his grip.

"It's too early to go home," Spot answered.

"I told Jack--" Race began but Spot cut him off.

"Jacky-boy can take care of himself," he said flatly.

"But--" Race lost his balance and knocked hard against Spot, who cursed.

"You need to sober up before you go back to Manhattan," Spot muttered darkly. "Else wise you just might trip and fall off the bridge."

"You wouldn't let that happen," Race said with a sloppy grin.

Spot rolled his eyes. "You're no fun when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," Race slurred.

"And the moon is made of cheese."

"Where are you taking me?"

Spot attempted to shrug but was unable to with Race leaning on him. He settled for sniffing derisively. The implied meaning of which Race completely missed.

"You sick or something?" he asked concern evident in his voice.

"No."

"Then why are you sniffing like that?"

Spot momentarily closed his eyes. "We're going to the docks."

"Why?"

"Because it's quiet there."

"Quiet?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you want it to be quiet, Spot?"

"I don't. You do."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do," Spot said, turning Race's head away with the side of his hand. "And your breath stinks, so stop breathing in my face."

"I like you," Race said and Spot nearly tripped.

"What?"

"I said, I like you."

"Why?"

"I don't know, because you're a cocky little bastard."

"So what if I am?" Spot glanced at Race out of the corner of his eyes. Race was never all that forthcoming with his thoughts but tonight, well maybe a little extra alcohol in his system was a good thing after all. "Why do you like me?" he pressed.

Race stopped walking and got a puzzled expression on his face. "I don't know," he said after a long pause.

Spot shifted so that Race's weight was more evenly distributed across his back and studied the other boy's expression. "You ain't ever said it before," Spot said, hating the insecurities that prompted him to mention the fact.

"Sure I have," Race said with a grin.

Spot shook his head. "Have not."

Race frowned at him. "I thought I had."

"Thinking ain't the same as doing," Spot replied roughly, his fingers digging into Race's side and causing the other boy to let out a slightly pained breath. Spot relaxed his grip and said, "Come on, we still have a ways to go."

"Why are we going to the docks?"

Spot pressed his lips together, deciding what to say. "Because I want to."

"That isn't an answer," Race retorted, walking carefully.

"Sure it is."

"Not one that I like," Race groused.

Spot laughed. "Just because you don't like it doesn't make it not an answer."

"Why are we going to the docks?"

"I already told you."

"No you didn't."

"Yes," Spot said, pinching Race's waist, "I did."

"That hurt!" Race bellowed, jerking away from Spot.

"It was meant to," Spot said calmly, moving back into place under Race's arm.

"You're a bastard," Race mumbled, leaning against him again.

"Don't go calling me names," Spot chided.

"I'll do what I want," Race muttered.

"It's not wise to irritate the person who's helping you walk, Race."

"I can walk on my own," Race said and started to remove his arm from Spot's shoulders.

Spot wrapped his arm tighter around Race's side and grunted. "No, you can't."

Race slumped against him and Spot sucked on his bottom lip, wondering if this was such a smart idea after all. He shifted slightly, lessening the contact, and kept his eyes pointed straight ahead. "Only a little farther," he said almost to himself.

"You all right?" Race asked suddenly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You've just been acting odd lately."

Spot felt panic start to rise in his chest. "What do you know about it?" he said, much more forcefully than intended.

"You don't have to start yelling at me," Race said with a frown. "It's probably nothing more than you being nervous about the take over, anyway."

"I ain't nervous." Spot asserted.

"Not now, you ain't," Race said, rolling his eyes. "But you were; before things had settled themselves, you were."

Spot made a face. "I'm never nervous."

Race laughed outright. "You tell that to someone who don't sell with you."

"About that," Spot said slowly.

"Yeah?"

"I," he cleared his throat. "I'm not going to be selling with you any more."

"What?"

Spot licked his suddenly dry lips and eyed the wooden railing that marked the entrance to the abandoned docks. "I'm leader now, ain't I?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So the leader can't be walking all the way to Sheepshead every day, now can he?"

"That's a pile of horseshit and you know it," Race blustered. "Being leader means you can do whatever you want."

"Well, that's why you ain't never going to be leader." Spot grinned.

"That and the fact that I don't want to be."

Spot gave him an exasperated sidelong look. "Race, you're the closest I've got to a friend, but you could never be a leader. You ain't got the necessary skills."

"I've got plenty of skills."

"Sure you do, but not the right ones."

"And what do you mean I'm the closest you've got to a friend?" Race twisted his neck and gave Spot a hard look. "You've got more friends then you rightly deserve, Spot."

Spot let go of Race and slipped out from under his arm. "Think you can manage the rest of the way on your own?" he asked with a smirk to cover his confusion.

"You helped steady me all the way here and now that we are going to be walking out onto a rickety old pier where I could fall to my death you're just going to let me go it alone?"

Spot nodded.

"You're a bum."

"Can it," Spot said, pushing aside a pile of empty crates and stepping out onto his dock.

* * *

Race blinked at the dock, trying to think of why he agreed to come out here in the first place. He closed his eyes and then opened them and was vaguely disappointed that the scene hadn't changed. Sighing, he took a hesitant step forward, and when he didn't lose his balance he took another one. He reached out to steady himself on the stack of empty crates and looked across the docks to where Stop was standing.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked again, not at all expecting a reply.

Spot surprised him by shaking his head and turning to face him. "Just seemed right, you know?"

Race leaned against the crates and sent one tumbling down into the water. It made a soft splash as it hit and he jerked away. "Right how?" he narrowed his eyes, hoping Spot wouldn't laugh.

Spot gave him an amused look, but ignored the moment when he spoke. "Yeah. I mean, this use to be home for me. This dock was all I had. And now look at me, leader of Brooklyn."

Race smiled and walked as cautiously as he could over to Spot, slapping him on the shoulder. "You're a somebody now, ain't you?"

"I'm Spot Conlon, I've always been a somebody," Spot said with a grin of his own.

Race looked up at the sky and shook his head. "You sure are," he said. "But what sort of a somebody that is?"

Spot rubbed his chin and gave Race a puzzled look that made Race wonder if that had come out the way he wanted it to. Spot had always been a decent sort, but power -- now that changed a fella. Changed 'em in ways no one could guess. He glanced down at the water and bit his lip. Things were already changing, what with Spot saying he wasn't going to be selling with him any more. Race shook his head, wishing he hadn't had so much to drink. He felt like something was missing but had no clue as to what that might be.

Spot cleared his throat. Race glanced up and Spot nodded over Race's shoulder. "Look at that, would you, Race?"

Race turned unsteadily and looked blankly out across the city. "I'm looking."

"It's mine. All that you can see is mine. I'm Spot Conlon and Brooklyn is mine."

Race heard the pride ringing in Spot's voice and felt something tighten inside him. He made a face and shrugged. "You're a newsie, Spot. Don't start thinking you're more then you are."

Spot shook his head. "You don't get it. I've got power now. What I say goes. No one is going to step into my territory without my say so. And so what if I'm only a newsie? Mouse was only a newsie and look at him now, working for Big Tim."

Race snorted. "Working for Big Tim. He's a runner, plain and simple."

"He is now, but give him a few years and you'll see."

"I'll see him busting heads and taking orders."

"Maybe, but he'll be giving them too. He's in with the Whyos now and they'll see him set for life."

"Or in an early grave," Race said, rubbing his eye. "Look, it's getting late and I have to get back in time to pay for my bed."

"It's not that late," Spot hedged moving down the dock.

"Spot," Race called after him. "Spot Conlon, you no good bum, get back here."

"Don't think I will," Spot called over his shoulder as he climbed up the shoring and swung himself over the top.

Race weaved his way over to the thick wooden pole and slapped it with his palm. "How the hell am I'm supposed to get up there?"

Spot leaned over. "Climb." He gave Race a smug look and Race scowled at him.

"I'm in no condition to climb," Race muttered, reaching up to grab hold of a crossbeam. He scrambled at the wood, fingers digging into the cracks and tried unsuccessfully to haul himself up.

Spot laughed and jumped down. He set his shoulder against the beam and laced his hands together. "I'll give you a boost," he said, smirking.

Race glowered at him as he set his right foot in the pocket formed by Spot's hands. "You're more trouble then you're worth," he muttered.

"Shouldn't I be the one saying that?" Spot asked with a grunt, thrusting his arms up.

Race threw his arms over the top of the piling and worked his legs frantically, not caring at all that Spot had started to laugh again. He finally managed to propel himself over the top and landed with a thump on the weathered wooden boards. He lay there a moment, trying to catch his breath.

There was a thump beside him; he turned towards it and found Spot's shoes an inch away from his face. Race put a hand over his eyes and sighed dramatically before forcing himself up. He leaned back on his arms and gave the perch a considering look. He shifted his gaze up to Spot, who seemed to be gloating as he stood over Race, and said, "What's the hell is this?"

Spot rubbed his neck. "Celebratory feast."

Race wiped his mouth. "Something wrapped in butcher paper, meat? Bread?" he glanced at Spot who just stared back at him and shrugged. "Don't really matter what it is. What's that?" He picked up a bottle made of thick brown glass and pulled the cork out of it. "Ale." He stuck the cork back in and tossed it to Spot who caught it with a grace Race envied. "This took effort. You planned this."

Spot glared at him. "I didn't plan on you making a drunken fool of yourself."

"Free drink," Race replied with a shrug.

"Yeah," Spot said, taking a deep breath. "I forgot about that part. Would have put some limits on you if I knew you were going to get soused."

Race made a rude hand gesture. "Well, far be it from me to upset any plans of yours," Race said a curl of the lip. He pointed at the packet of food. "Want to tell me what you brought?"

Spot scratched his head. "Bread, cheese, a bit of sausage. Got an orange, seeing as how this is a special occasion."

"An orange?" Race asked in amazement.

Spot gave him sly a look, "Yeah, I like them."

"I never had one before," Race admitted with a sheepish grin.

"Just wait," Spot grinned at him, his voice full of excitement. "They're all sweet and juicy."

Race shoved at Spot's leg. "Well, don't just stand there. Get it."

Spot shook his head. "That's for later. Eat the other things first."

Race frowned at him. "Why?"

"Because it will make everything else taste like sawdust," Spot explained half-scolded.

"Well, hand the bread over, then," he said as his stomach rumbled loudly.

Spot untied the ends of the packet and pulled out a hunk of bread. He ripped off two pieces and handed one chunk over. "Want something to wash it down?" he asked.

Race shook his head, took a large bite and chewed, enjoying the crispiness of the crust. He swallowed and smiled. "Day old?"

"Is by now."

"You bought it fresh?" Race asked, astonished by Spot's extravagance.

"I'm celebrating," Spot answered with a shrug and bit into his bread with obvious relish.

"You said something about cheese?" Race asked after he swallowed another bite.

"Here," Spot said, tossing over a bright yellow wheel.

Race sniffed it and then smiled, breaking off a large piece. He handed the rest back over to Spot and then tore off a piece of bread and a small section of his cheese. Race wrapped the bread around the cheese and took a bite, groaning at the combination of flavors. "A body could get use to this," he said around his food.

Spot bit into the sausage and nodded. "It's good to be the leader," he mumbled, his mouth full.

"Even if it means not selling with your so-called friend?"

Spot wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't have a choice, Race."

"It doesn't matter," Race said dismissively, taking another bite. It mattered. Mattered like hell, but Race wasn't going to be the one to say so.

"Yeah, it does."

"I say it doesn't," he snapped, angry at Spot for being right.

"Well you're an idiot."

"I'm not going to miss you or anything," Race retorted, hunching his shoulders.

"Sure you are."

"I like being on my own."

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do," Race ground out. "I was perfectly fine before you wormed your way into my routine and I'll be just as fine when you're gone again."

Spot gave him a skeptical look and shook his head. "Just keep telling yourself that."

"Give me some of that," Race demanded, pointing at the sausage.

"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" Spot asked as he passed it over.

"I'm not going to waste them on the likes of you." Race took a bite.

Spot raised a bottle to his lips and took a swig, belching when he lowered it.

"Classy," Race commented, taking it from his hands.

"Don't drink too much of it, I don't want to have to carry your sorry self all the way to Manhattan."

"Sure you do." Race grinned as he polished off the last of his bread and licked the crumbs off his fingers. He lifted the bottle and took a long pull on it, smacking his lips when he was done. "Washes down fine, don't it?"

Spot scooted over and took the bottle from Race's hand, his fingers grazing against Race's. He drunk deeply from it, leaned back against the wood and sighed. "It's nice, you being here."

Race shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to reply. Spot cleared his throat and set down the bottle. He picked up the packet, removed the orange and smiled. Then he brought it up to his nose and breathed deeply. "I've been waiting for this all day long," Spot said as he passed it over. "Here, smell this."

Race took the fruit and put it under his nose, breathing in the tangy scent of it. He squeezed it gently, fingers rubbing against the skin.

"Don't do that," Spot snapped, taking it away from him. "You'll bruise it."

Spot's fingers dug into the rind, releasing a fresh burst of fragrance as he pulled back the outer layer to reveal the delicate flesh of the fruit. He stuck his tongue out between his teeth, carefully pealing away the remainder of the skin. Setting each discarded strip on the paper Spot explained, "If you set the peal out in the sun it will dry nicely and you can put it in your pockets or with your wash. Makes everything smell fresh."

Race nodded, even though he would never think to do something like that. He licked his lips as Spot segmented the orange, holding out his hand for a piece. Spot set one in the center of his hand and then smiled at him. "Go ahead, try it," he encouraged, his eyes dancing.

Race brought the section up to his lips and then gently bit into the end of it. Juice squirted into his mouth and a rush of flavor followed it. Race greedily shoved the rest of the fruit into his mouth and sucked on it, pressing it against his teeth to get as much of the juice out of it as he could.

"Like it then?" Spot asked, handing over another section.

Race nodded, busily eating the new piece. "It's delicious," he said, licking his lips to try and capture any hint of the juice that might be on them. Spot gave him another piece and he ate that, eyes closed tight in appreciation. "I've never had anything so good in my life," he muttered before shoving another piece into his mouth.

He ate this piece much more slowly, savoring the delicate fruit. Race licked at his fingers when juice managed to spill on them. He saw Spot watching him an expression Race had never seen before on his face and this time when he licked his lips it wasn't in hunt of any remnants of juice.

Spot held up another piece and Race accepted it eagerly. He bit on the end and sucked hard, relishing in the way the Spot's entire being seemed to be focused on him. Race let his tongue dart out and lick up the side of the segment of orange. Spot let out a noise too faint to be properly deciphered, but it gave him the encouragement he needed anyway.

Race ran the next piece around his lips once before wrapping his lips around it and slowly sucking it into his mouth. Spot shifted closer, his leg brushing up against Race's and sending waves of heat coursing through Race's veins.

Spot leaned forward to feed Race the final piece. Race nibbled at the proffered orange before once more sucking it into his mouth. He let his tongue dart out and lick Spot's fingertips clean before pulling away from Spot's now empty hand.

It was only then that he realized that he had devoured the orange on his own. Spot hadn't gotten one bite. The heat in his belly defused as embarrassment overwhelmed him. Race knew that Spot had meant that orange to be the crowning point of his celebration. "I'm sorry," he muttered as he adverted his eyes.

"Don't be," Spot said in a voice Race had never heard him use before. He could feel the tension in Spot's body and he glanced back. Spot's intense gaze trapped him and he opened his mouth to say something, anything in response to the emotion he saw in them. But before he could Spot's lips were pressed against his.

* * *

Spot rubbed his mouth against Race's, licking at his lips. Race's mouth moved hesitantly in response, lips parting a fraction. Spot took full advantage of it and delved into the other boy's mouth. His tongue swirled around Race's, tasting orange and ale and something inherently Race.

He moved closer, hands bunching in the fabric of Race's shirt, trying not to let his brain override his actions. He hadn't planned on doing this so soon -- he was going to try and work his way up to it eventually, play his game carefully so that Race wouldn't react badly but now that he'd done it he wasn't about to stop. Not unless Race punched him. Which was a likely enough reaction.

But Race didn't punch him.

Instead, Race opened his mouth wider and moved his tongue against Spot's as eagerly as any girl ever had. Spot angled his head, sucked on Race's lower lip and smiled to himself as Race moaned. He let one hand slide up Race's body to tangle in his hair and tugged slightly to expose his throat. Spot pulled back from the kiss and bit down on that tender skin, flicking his tongue expertly as he sucked.

Race moaned again and his hands fisted in Spot's shirt. Spot licked up Race's neck, nipping at his ear and then kissed him again. He brushed his lips gently against Race's, silently asking the other boy to part them for him. Race did. His mouth opened and his tongue darted inside Spot's mouth, running along the side of Spot's. Spot closed his eyes and pressed himself against the other boy's body.

Race pulled back and muttered something that Spot couldn't understand, pushing slightly at Spot's chest. Spot let go immediately, shifting away from Race as he shoved his hands in his pockets and attempted to control his breathing.

Kissing Race had been a mistake. A really big mistake. And Spot didn't know what he was going to do to fix it. He stared at the sky, trying to think of something to say and inwardly cursing himself. This was going to mess things up. Race was going to -- Christ, he didn't know what Race was going to do, but it wouldn't be good. He glanced sideways at Race and saw him touching his lips. He sucked on his teeth and wondered if Race would be too drunk to remember any of this in the morning.

"Want to explain what that was about?" Race asked in strange voice, still touching him mouth.

"I paid for that orange, I was damn well going to taste it," Spot said in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone.

"Are you sure you got a good taste?"

"What?"

Race took his hand from his mouth and turned to face him, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. "Are you sure you got a good taste? I wouldn't want you to go away without having your fill."

Spot hesitated for a moment and then grinned.

* * *

Race woke with a start and blinked up into the bright blue of the sky. "Where the hell am I?" he croaked, rolling onto his side. His head ached and his body ached and for some reason he was sleeping out in the open next to Spot Conlon, of all people. He closed his eyes and prayed that when he opened them he would be in his bunk and this would all turn out to be a bad dream.

He opened them.

"So much for that," he muttered, pulling himself up and gazing bleary around. He stood and walked to the edge of the piling, frowning out over the water as he attempted to think of a way out of this predicament. What had he been thinking? Spot was his friend, dammit, and he didn't want to foul that up.

Behind him, Spot moaned and rolled over in his sleep. Race glanced at him and ran both his hands through his hair. There had been alcohol, Race told himself. A lot of it. And Spot. Spot with his arms wrapped around Race's waist as they walked to the dock. Spot laughing at him as he tried to climb up the shoring. Spot feeding him that orange. Spot kissing him. Christ. Spot kissing him.

Race sucked on his bottom lip. Spot had started it, after all. Maybe this wasn't as bad as he thought it was. He frowned. Then again, maybe it was. A body did all sorts of things in the heat of the moment. He couldn't count on Spot not being the sort to blacken a fella's eyes come morning for things he'd begged for the night before. Race shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. He glanced up at the sky, judging the time and swore. They were late.

He walked over to Spot and nudged him with his foot. "Wake up," he said. Spot rolled away from him and kept right on sleeping. Race rolled his eyes and bent down, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up," he said again.

Spot opened his eyes a crack and scowled. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, swatting at Race's hand.

"Getting your sorry self up, is what," Race said, nudging Spot's side with his foot.

"Why?"

"Just get up."

"What time is it?"

"Late."

Spot sat up and yawned. "Too late to get the morning edition?"

"Most likely."

"Then why the hell did you wake me?" Spot asked while rubbing his eyes.

"If we hurry…" Race trailed off, realizing that hurrying wouldn't change the fact that they missed the deadline and wouldn't be able to get anything till the next edition came out. He shrugged. "I was up so you might as well be."

Spot ran his tongue along his teeth and Race looked down at his feet, wondering how he could ask about what happened last night without looking like a fool.

Spot, apparently, had no problems where that was concerned. "You leave any marks on me to match the ones on you?" he asked as easily as if he were talking about the weather.

"What?"

Spot rolled his eyes. "You heard what I said."

Race touched his neck absently wondering what Jack would say when he saw him and examined the exposed parts of Spot's body. "Not as far as I can see."

"Good."

"So…" Race wasn't sure how to continue.

Spot yawned again and ground the palms of his hands into his eyes. "It's morning, right?"

"Yeah," Race said.

"And I'm hungry."

"So?"

"So let's not have this conversation until after breakfast."

Race gave Spot a dirty look but kept his mouth shut. Hell, maybe by the time they had finished eating Race would figure out something to say. Spot was still giving him the gimlet eye so he nodded.

He bent down and opened the white paper that held the remains of last night's dinner. "Here." He chucked a small wedge of cheese at Spot and took a section of sausage for himself. "Eat that."

Spot shrugged and took a bite. Race sniffed the sausage and decided it was still good. He ate it with gusto, licking his fingers when he was finished. He looked up and saw Spot had finished his cheese and was watching him. "You had breakfast. Now let's talk."

Spot's glowered at him. "That's not much of a breakfast."

"It's all you're getting," Race said, crossing his arms. It was clear to him that Spot wasn't interested in having this conversation after all and he'd be damned if he let Spot weasel out of it.

Spot rolled his eyes and stood, "Seems I don't want to talk after all."

"That's too bad, because I do."

Spot narrowed his eyes at that and then leaned back with his arms crossed. "Why should I care about what you want?" he challenged.

"Because we're friends."

"Are we?" Spot asked, and there was an edge to his voice that made Race think long and hard before he answered.

Race kicked at a lose plank and sighed. "Last night," he paused. "You're still my friend, Spot. A little kissing isn't going to change that."

Spot smirked. "It was more then a little kissing."

Race feigned nonchalance. "Kissing is kissing."

"You ever kiss a boy before?" Spot asked, eyebrows raised.

Race shrugged again. Of course he had. Almost everyone he knew had. It was part of life on the streets. Not one of the better parts, but a fact of life just the same.

"You liked it, don't you?" Spot said with a smirk.

Race cracked his knuckles. "If I remember correctly, you started it."

"Well, that's because I happen to like kissing."

"Do you like kissing me?" Race asked, not looking at Spot.

"I wouldn't have done it if I didn't."

"I liked it too," Race said risking a glance at Spot.

"Ah, Higgins, don't go all mushy on me," Spot said, but Race could see he was smiling.

"Don't call me Higgins," Race said with a smile of his own.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll call you Conlon."

"Not much of a threat, Higgins," Spot said, crossing his arms and smirking.

Race took a step towards Spot, his whole body tense with anticipation. "Shut up, Conlon."

"Why don't you make me?" Spot challenged.

"All right then I will," Race said, taking another step closer and kissing the taller boy firmly on the mouth.


	10. Just Answer The Damn Question

Just Answer the Damned Question

_July 19, 1898_

Spot ambled down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He whistled while he walked, nodding every now and then to a pretty looking lady or a girl with a twinkle in her eyes. The sun was shining down on him as he made his way through streets that had long-since become familiar, happy with life. A dog growled at him from an alley and Spot gave it a wide berth.

He swung right at the next corner and smiled as he saw the tall sign announcing the location of the News Boys' Lodging House. Spot smiled at the sight of it. It had been too long since he had last been here, since before he became leader, and Spot found that he had missed the place. Or maybe it was because it reminded him of Race and that was what Spot had been missing.

The smile slipped from his face as he thought about how little he had been seeing the other boy lately. It would be different if Race lived in Brooklyn, then it wouldn't matter than Spot hardly had a moment to spare. But Race living with him would complicate things endlessly and, even as hardheaded as he was, Spot had to admit that it was best for them to be apart.

Spot pulled one hand out of his pocket, taking out a shooter and admiring the way the sunlight gleamed off of its slick surface. He glanced left and right, then tugged out his slingshot and aimed. The twang of the elastic snapping forward gave him almost as much of a thrill as the thump of the marble against the wooden sign. It had hit in the dead center of the second "o" and Spot decided to take that as a good omen.

Slipping the slingshot back into his pocket, he made his way across the street and up the steps. Blink was sunning himself at the top of them, his head tilted back and his eye closed. Spot gently kicked at his leg. "Hey ya, Blink."

Blink cracked his eye open and squinted at Spot. "Ain't seen your puss around here lately."

"Busy," Spot answered proudly, puffing out his chest.

"Race mentioned something about you taking over things in Brooklyn," Blink replied as he closed his eye. "Guess I better watch myself around you now that you're big time." He yawned widely.

Spot chuckled. "I see I've got you shaking in your boots." Blink smiled without opening his eye and Spot's lips curved up in response. "Race around?" he asked casually.

"Naw."

A twinge of irritation shot through him. "Know where he is?"

Blink shook his head. "Haven't a clue. Jack might, though. He's up on the roof." Blink jerked a thumb upward. "Why don't you go and bother him? I'm relaxing."

Spot glanced upwards, eyes narrowing in the sun's glare then nodded to himself. "I hope you burn," he replied good naturedly as he reached for the door.

He pushed through and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. Spot looked around the room causally and lifted his eyebrows when he saw Crutchy behind the desk instead of Kloppman. He touched the brim of his cap and the other boy flushed with pride and waved Spot up the stairs.

Spot hitched up his britches and then started for the stairs. He scratched his chin as he climbed towards the roof. It was just as well that Race wasn't around. Spot had a few questions he had been meaning to ask Jack and not a one of them would go over well with Race. He smiled to himself, pleased to have a chance to get a few things sorted out with Jacky-boy without anyone taking note of the fact.

There was a boy that Spot didn't know lounging at the bunkroom landing. The boy gave Spot a considering look and Spot cocked his chin up in response, fingering the head of his cane. He sucked on his teeth as he neared and the boy wisely decided to break the stare first, his eyes lowered respectfully. That put Spot in a fine mood and he began to whistle as he rounded the last flight of steps, pushed open the door, and came out onto the roof.

Jack was leaning against the railing of the far wall, a half-smoked cigarette dangling in his fingers. He turned his head and smiled in acknowledgement. "Well look at what the cat dragged in."

"Nice seeing you too," Spot returned. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and made a show of ambling on over to where Jack was standing.

Jack spit in one hand and held it out; Spot did the same. They shook, eyes locked and then Jack gave one of his lopsided grins. "Been too long," he said as he released Spot's hand.

"That it has." Spot shifted so that he was standing side by side with Jack, looking out across the city. "How things been with you lot?"

Jack raised the cigarette to his lips and took a long draw. He let the smoke stay inside his mouth for a moment and then exhaled slowly, making a neat circle. With a lift of a shoulder, he said, "Same as they always are." He gave Spot a sly look. "I hear things are looking up for you, though."

Spot shrugged nonchalantly. "Could say that." His hand slipped into his pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes. He took one out with his lips and then struck a match on the side of the railing. Spot took a deep drag and then blew the smoke out as slowly as Jack had.

"Race says that you stopped selling with him," Jack commented out of the blue.

With his attention still focused on the view, Spot answered, "Had to. There are things in Brooklyn proper that need my attention. Can't go out to Sheepshead when someone might need me nearer to home."

Jack nodded and leaned back. "Makes sense." He took off that ridiculous cowboy hat of his and fanned himself with it. "Wish Race could be brought around to your way of thinking."

Spot chuckled. "It would take an act of god to get Race out of Sheepshead." He rubbed his lower lip with his thumb, trying to think of a good way to slip in the questions he wanted to ask without Jack thinking too hard about it. There was something about Jack and Race's relationship that rankled Spot. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by Jack.

"Look, you and Race," Jack paused, gripping his hands on the railing. "Well, the two of you are mighty friendly."

Deciding that he didn't care for Jack's tone, Spot instantly clamed up. "Yeah."

Jack eyed him shrewdly. "But now that you ain't selling together any more, well, that friendship is bound to lessen."

"Is it?"

"Facts are facts, Spot." Jack took a pull on his cigarette. "You're in Brooklyn doing whatever it is you do and Race, Race is in Sheepshead wasting his time on the ponies."

"Ain't that the truth," Spot muttered.

Jack continued as if Spot hadn't spoken. "The pair of you live a fair ways apart and you at least will have more than enough to keep you busy when you ain't selling." Jack lifted a shoulder. "Plain as day that you ain't going to be able to stay close."

Spot gave him a superior look. "That's where you're wrong."

"Am I?" Jack grinned. "Well, we'll see about that."

"What's it matter to you anyway?" Spot demanded, getting hot under the collar at the obvious pleasure Jack was getting from thinking that Spot wouldn't be in Race's life much longer. Jack just gave him a grin. Spot thought about slugging him then and there, but decided that smoking his cigarette was the better option.

After a space of silence, Jack said, "Racetrack, he's a close friend of mine," in a way that Spot would have to be a fool not to understand.

Spot felt his temper shoot up again and actually got as far as balling his hand in a fist before he remember that he was playing it cool. "Funny, I never would have thought that," he replied in a similar tone.

Jack gritted his teeth. "Now that the two of you ain't going to be seeing each other so often, I'm sure that things will go back to the way they were."

At that Spot smirked. Go back to the way they were, hum? That meant that Jack had noticed things had changed. He pushed his cap back on his head and ground out his cigarette. "Of course not." Spot said with a half-joking smile and tossed the butt at Jack who swatted it out of the air. Jack opened his mouth but Spot didn't want to hear whatever it was he was going to say, so he reached out and pushed Jack in the chest with the palm of his hand. "I'm Spot Conlon and once I touch something it ain't ever the same again."

"That's a load of crap if ever I heard one."

Spot lifted his eyebrows. "I've said all I'm going to on the subject."

"Ain't that nice," Jack said sourly.

"You know when Race will be back?"

Jack studied the horizon. "No clue."

Spot pursed his lips. Jacky-boy didn't want to play with him anymore now that his poor little feelings were hurt. He laughed to himself and shook his head.

"What's got you in such a mood?" Jack groused.

"You."

Jack made a face. "I don't know what Race sees in you."

"Sure you do." Spot hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. "That's why you like me yourself."

"Says you."

"Says anyone with eyes."

Jack snorted. "That's some ego you got there, Spot." He flicked his cigarette out over the edge and then turned and began to study Spot intently.

Spot watched him warily, not liking the look in the other boy's eyes. "I've earned it," he said lightly.

"That's right, you're leader of Brooklyn now. Very busy and important. Far too busy to be coming around here."

Spot snorted. "You wish."

Jack gave him a confident smile. "You wait and see. Things will pick up over the bridge. You'll have troubles you never dreamed of. People will need you to do more things than twenty fully grown men could handle. And one day you'll look up and Race will be long gone."

Doubt began to roil in Spot's belly and he clamped down on it forcefully. He shook his head. "Pretty as that picture is, it ain't gonna happen."

Jack put one finger along the side of his nose and winked. Spot decided that he had never seen anything as ridiculous in his life. He wanted to wipe that knowing look right off of Jack's face. He shifted closer and leaned into Jack's space. Jack didn't move a muscle.

"You think you got this all figured out," Spot sneered, "but you don't know nothing. Me, I always get what I want."

"And Race is what you want?" Jack's eyes were wide and his breathing was heavy.

"I told you, I ain't talking to you about Race." He moved closer still.

Jack licked his lips and began to open his mouth. Spot sure as hell didn't want to hear whatever it was Jack had on his mind. He moved quickly, grabbing hold of the front of Jack's vest and dragging him towards him. Before Jack could think to object, Spot pressed his lips against Jack's in a brutal kiss. He moved his mouth over Jack's and Jack responded eagerly.

With a satisfied grunt, Spot shoved Jack away. He took in the other boy's dazed expression and flushed cheeks. Then he dashed the back of his hand across his mouth, turned his head to the side and spit. "I always figured you for a queer."

Jack's features darkened and his hands clenched at his sides. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight and Spot wouldn't have minded one bit to give him one. But at the moment when it seemed like Jack would swing, the door to the stairs opened.

* * *

"Hey, Jack," Race called out as he walked into the fresh air, slightly dazzled by the sunlight. "Blink said you wanted to see me." He squinted as his eyes adjusted and then paused midstep at the tableau in front of him. "Ah hell," he muttered.

Jack was on the roof, just like Blink had said, and so was Spot, who Blink had failed to mention. Well, that explained the cheeky grin on Blink's face when he had told Race to head on up to the roof. Race shook his head and promised himself that he would pay Blink back. After he defused whatever was going on up here, that was.

Both Spot and Jack looked like they were on the verge of coming to blows, which was never good, but the way they were eyeing him like he was some sort of a prize made things ten times worse. Race gave them both a head nod and began to make his way towards them, his mind racing.

The boys followed his progress with a focus that unnerved him and made Race wish he could turn on his heel and head right back down those stairs. He watched as Spot shot Jack a superior glance which Jack returned with a glare before flashing Race a blinding grin. Ah hell, indeed. This wasn't going to end pretty. Race had been in situations like this before, more times than he cared to admit, but it had always been two girls vying for his attention, not two of his friends. Still, something told him that the fact that he was close with the boys wouldn't help matters any.

When he was still a good ways away from them, Race stopped and pulled his cap off. He began to fan himself, though the day hardly warranted it, and smiled cheerfully at the pair. They gave him wide smiles of their own before glowering at each other. Race slapped his cap back on and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this with his skin intact.

"Beautiful weather we've been having, ain't it?" he offered feebly.

Spot's smile vanished faster than fog on a hot morning. "I trek all the way out here and you great me with some pap about the weather?" Jack chuckled and Spot causally slapped the side of his face. "Shut up."

Jack growled, his eyes narrowing to slits. He grabbed hold of Spot's shoulder and spun him around to face him, jabbing a finger an inch from Spot's face. "Never do that again."

Spot brushed Jack's hand away like he was swatting a fly. "Or what, Jacky-boy?"

Race hurriedly stepped in between them. "Hey now, fellas, there's no reason to be up in arms." He looked from one to the other and forced a grin. "Spot's right, he's come a long way and I didn't even greet him." Jack snorted in disgust. "And I'm sure he didn't come all this way for nothing," Race plowed on. "Now Spot, Jack's got something he needs to tell me, so how about you go on down and wait for me on the stoop and I'll be there as soon as Jack and I are finished."

"The hell I will," Spot spat.

"What, afraid to leave him alone with me?" Jack jeered.

Race licked his lips and wished to god he wasn't in the middle of this. "Look," he said slowly, "I don't know what's got the pair of you acting like a couple of jackasses, but I don't want any part of it. So just drop it or I'm going back to the bunkroom and seeing if Dutchy's up of a game of poker."

Spot made a face and Jack grimaced, but they nodded and Race decided to leave it at that. "So, what did you need me for?" he asked Jack again.

Jack sucked on his teeth and lifted a hand. "Not much, really. Couple of the boys want to go over to Meda's tomorrow night and I was thinking you might be interested in joining us."

Race's mood brightened dramatically. "You bet I would," he eagerly agreed.

Jack gave him a genuine smile. "Thought you would say that." He stepped closer and slung his arm around Race's shoulders. Race felt the smile slip from his face as he tried to think of a polite way to disentangle himself from Jack's hold.

"Too bad you ain't gonna be able to make it." Spot took that moment to grab a share of Race's attention for himself. "You promised Mac you would come on by for a friendly game."

Race cleared his throat and gave Jack a sheepish look. "Must have slipped my mind." He gave Jack's hand a quick squeeze and then slipped out from under his arm. "I guess I'm going to have to give it a miss."

Spot smirked at Jack, which didn't help improve the look on the taller boy's face. Jack stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, which he slid between his lips and quickly lit. "No big deal." His eyes made lies out of the words. "It ain't like I won't see you anyway."

Spot's smile lost some of its edge and Race had to disguise his laugh as a cough. "Was that all you wanted to talk to me about?" Jack eyed Spot distastefully and grudgingly said that it was. Race rubbed his forehead. "All right then. I'm going to head on down to Tibby's now. Spot, you want to join me?" Spot gave him a sharp nod. "Fine. Jack, I'll see you when I get back."

Jack made a face. "Be in before dark, Kloppman is getting strict."

Race suppressed a sigh. Did Jack think he was some baby who didn't know his way around? Not wanting to aggravate him, Race nodded. Then he pointed towards the stairs. "After you," he told Spot.

Spot was silent all the way out of the building and halfway down the block. Then he turned to Race and glared at him. "What's with you and Jack?" he hissed.

Race gave him a look. "I was planning on asking you the same damned thing."

"Never a straight answer with you, is there?"

"Spot, I am not in the mood. If you want to pick a fight, just go back on into the lodging house and I'm sure you'll find Jack willing to oblige you."

Spot fingered the head of his cane and glared at Race. "I want to know where things stand with the two of you."

Letting out a long breath, Race tried to stay level headed. "Jack's my friend. Same as any of the boys." It wasn't exactly the truth, but the look on Spot's face told him that now was not a time for full discloser.

"Did you know he," Spot glanced up and down the street and then leaned closer, "likes to kiss boys."

Race laughed. "You say that like you don't enjoy it too."

Spot's lip curled distastefully. "He is soft on you."

Jesus, Joseph and Mary, this was not what Race wanted to deal with right now. Hell, this was not what he wanted to deal with ever. He made a dissatisfied noise. "So what if he is?"

"Race," Spot said warningly but Race cut him off.

"I don't really give a damn about Jack right now. I'm with you, ain't I?" he slung an arm around Spot's shoulders, knowing full well that that the chuck under the chin that normally followed that statement wouldn't go over well at all. The words worked their charm without it though and Spot went from looking like a thunderhead to looking fairly pleased with himself.

"You sure you want to go to Tibby's?" Spot asked slyly, glancing at Race sidelong. Race shrugged. He didn't care one way or the other. "Then how about you and me go to this place that I know. I can promise you you'll enjoy it more than you would a trip to the diner."

Race grinned. Spot wanted to play and that suited him just fine.

* * *

Spot crossed the street and took an immediate left. He pulled free his cane and relished the sound of it clinking against the cobblestones with each step he took. A glance over his shoulder told him that Race was still with him, though his expression meant that the other boy was not pleased with the lack of notice before they changed direction. Spot gave him a smug smile in return and nearly chortled at the look he got in return.

_Serves him right_, Spot thought a touch bitterly. He was no fool; he knew when something wasn't coming up the way it ought to, and whole scene with Jack had stunk like last week's dog droppings. Spot skirted around a man slumped against a wall and tried to sort out what exactly was bothering him.

Race made a disgusted noise and stepped over the drunk's sprawled legs. "Where the hell are you taking me?"

Spot didn't bother answering. He didn't see the point. They would be there soon enough and besides, it wasn't the destination that mattered. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the street, looking for the lopsided awning that marked the entrance to the alley. He spotted it a quarter of the way down and made for it eagerly.

His brow wrinkled as he remembered the way that Jack had beamed at Race, the way his hands had lingered on Race's shoulders. Jack-boy was very interested in Race and Spot would be damned if he let someone else edge in on something he'd been working on for years. A glance over his shoulder showed him that Race was unenthusiastically picking his way through the garbage that lined the alley.

"Through here," he said, shoving aside a lose plank with a grunt and pushing open the door.

"This ain't exactly what I was expecting," Race commented as he eyed the dimly lit interior.

"The atmosphere isn't why I brought you here," Spot replied smoothly, turning towards him.

Race gave him a skeptical look and opened his mouth; Spot silenced him by reaching down and cupping Race between the legs. Race's eyes went glassy as Spot gave him a squeeze. Spot smirked, pleased with himself and Race's reaction. He leaned forward slowly, giving Race plenty of time to anticipate his next move. His lips brushed gently across Race's mouth then pressed against them hard enough to bruise.

A groan slipped out of Race as he fisted his hands in Spot's shirt. "I like you're thinking," he panted.

"You're gonna love this," Spot promised as he began to undo the fastenings on Race's britches.

So far he had kept things simple between them, limiting their contact to kissing and the like. But from what Spot had seen today, he knew he had to up the stakes. He slipped his hand down the front of Race's smalls and heard him mutter a curse. Spot's fingers curled around Race and slid slowly up to the tip of him. Race's breath escaped him in a ragged moan.

"Christ," he muttered, his eyes going half lidded.

Race moved forward, his mouth slamming into Spot's as Spot began to stroke him. His lips ate at Spot's mouth, then down across his jaw to his neck and Spot felt himself straining against the fabric of his own britches. He wished that Race would reach out and touch him, wanting desperately to know what Race's hands would feel like on his naked flesh. Spot closed his eyes and pictured Race running those long fingers of his across Spot's hips and circling around him. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and began to work Race faster.

Race was making a soft keening sound, his head was tossed back and his hands were balled into fists at his side. He began to buck into Spot's hand and Spot knew it was only a matter of time before things came to a close. Spot watched his face, trying to memorize the details, the way that Race's eyes shined and the flush that covered his cheeks.

"Christ," Race said again, much more forcefully, and then his back arched and a sticky warmth coated Spot's hand.

Spot leaned in close and whispered in Race's ear,"No, just me," Spot smiled smugly. _Just trying living up to that, Jacky-boy, _he thought, brimming over with satisfaction.


	11. Let's Get a Few Things Straight

Let's Get a Few Things Straight…

_August 10, 1898_

_This was not how this night was suppose to go_, Spot thought bitterly to himself. He glanced around the table and was pleased to see that he wasn't the only one with a frown on his face. Blink was tapping his foot impatiently, Mush wasn't smiling, and Jack looked like he was about to do something stupid. But with Jack that was pretty much normal.

Spot let his eyes slide to the left and then quickly returned them to the stage. The girl dancing was anything but interesting. Still, she was a much needed distraction. Next to him there was a high pitched giggle and Spot felt his scowl deepen.

"Shut up," he said out of the side of his mouth.

The giggling stopped for a moment then returned at full force. Spot slowly turned his head and gave the object of his displeasure his full attention.

"I said shut up," he said in the voice that people listened to.

The girl flushed, her eyes lowering coyly. "I don't think your friend likes me, Race," she simpered.

"Naw," Race laughed. "He's just jealous." Spot felt his jaw drop at Race's unexpected observation. "He just wishes he had a girl as pretty as you," Race continued and Spot immediately sneered.

Of course. How could he possibly think that Race had noticed? He was too wrapped up in that cheap piece of skirt to see anything other than her cleavage. "Yeah, 'cause I like trash," Spot snarled in a carrying undertone.

The girl tensed and for a moment he thought she was going to slap him, but then she giggled again and reached out to ruffle his hair instead. Spot moved his head away from her hand and gave Race a look that ought to have killed him.

Blink rubbed his chin. "I've seen this show before," he said in a voice that made it clear that he wasn't interested in seeing it again.

Mush lifted one shoulder. "So have I."

"There's something new at the end," the girl said with a conspiratorial wink. "Something sure to catch the interest of you fine gentlemen."

Jack laughed half heartedly then picked up his cup and drained it. "What sort of something," he asked as the passing waitress filled it again.

"Un-uh, that would be telling," she answered, squirming in Race's lap.

"Come on now, Betsy, give us a hint," Race teased, pinching her cheek.

The tart bent low and whispered in his ear and he threw his head back and laughed. "Now that is something I wouldn't mind seeing." He winked at her.

She blushed again and tossed her hair fetchingly over her shoulders. Spot frowned at her, wondering what shade her face would turn if he cut off all that hair. He let himself indulge in the fantasy of shaving her head with a dull razor and smiled. She blinked at him, obviously taken aback.

She smiled back, shyly. "Are you starting to warm to me then," she asked, the perfect image of maidenly innocence.

Spot's smile widened as he pictured her bald as a baby and dressed in rags.

Race glanced over and cleared his throat. "No, Betsy, I don't think that he is. And if you ever see Spot smile at you like that again, I'd say you had best run as fast as you can in the other direction."

Spot lifted his beer in acknowledgment of Race's wisdom and nodded irnonically at the thunderstruck tart.

"Spot, stop bothering the girl," Jack muttered as he slapped his hand on the table. Spot glared at him and Jack averted his eyes and scratched his neck. "So what's this new act?" he said, giving Betsy that slow smile of his.

Apparently, being a whore did not grant immunity to Jack's lazy smile, because she gave him a simmering look and cocked her head to the side invitingly. "Anything for you," she said throatily.

Race gave Jack a dirty look and shifted his legs, bouncing Betsy and she playfully swatted at him. "Now don't you be getting jealous, Race," she all but cooed. "A girl would have to be dead to resist that one."

"Are you going to answer or what?" Spot demanded, crossing his arms and giving her a blank stare.

For a moment he thought he saw rage on her face, but she quickly replaced it with a glowing smile. "Why of course I am, silly." She ruffled his hair again. "There's a new girl, see. She comes on last of all, dressed in nothing but veils. She dances for a while, removing a veil every now and then and by the end of the dance she's down to nothing but her shift and corset."

Jack's eyes lit up. "Is that so," he replied with a wink at the rest of the table.

"Honest to God." Betsy nodded reverently.

Spot rolled his eyes. "I've seen all that before," he snapped. "And not had to pay for it either."

"Well, we can't all be as lucky as you, Spot." Blink retorted with sarcastic roll of the eyes.

Much laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder, grinning widely. Spot gave him a cold look and wondered if Mush ever stopped smiling.

Blink yawned widely. "I'm all for scantly clad women, but I've already spent more than I should. What do you say we head on back to the lodging house, Mush?"

Mush glanced up at the stage and then down at his cup. He threw back the contents and burped. "I'm ready to go," he announced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jack gave an overdone sigh. "I guess that means we won't be seeing the veil dance after all."

Spot pushed back his chair. "I don't think you will be missing much, Jack." He tossed a handful of coins on the table.

Race made a face. "The night's just begun, boys," he protested.

"No one said you had to leave." Spot hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and gave Race a level stare.

Race frowned at him. "This is the last time I invite you along."

"That'll have me crying in my beer," Spot snorted. "Hell, if I'd known how we'd be spending our time I wouldn't have bothered to come in the first place."

"That's a fine thing to say," Race snapped, pushing Betsy off his lap and standing up.

"You got a problem with it, Racetrack?' Spot challenged, jutting out his chin.

"Come on, boys," Mush said, slinging his arms over Spot and Race's shoulders, "Let's do something new and not have a fight."

Spot scowled at him and pushed his arm off, but Race just laughed and threw his arm around Mush's shoulders as well.

"Now that's an idea," he said, giving Spot a friendly grin.

Spot ignored it and slowed down to walk with Jack and Blink. Jack was telling a cock-and-bull story about a girl he supposedly knew and a night they had spent on the docks. Spot listened to it for as long as he could before pointing out that Jack was clearly lying.

"So what if I am," Jack said with a shrug. "It makes a good story and nobody is hurt by it."

"The truth is a flexible thing to you, Jacky-boy," Spot said good-naturedly.

"It certainly is," Blink said with a laugh. "It's one of his better qualities, ain't it Jack?"

"What? My way of improving the truth? Damn right it is." Jack puffed out his chest and grinned.

Spot glanced up at saw that they were nearing the Manhattan lodging house. "It's been real pleasant," he said without meaning it. Spot touched the brim of his cap and then started to veer off.

"Hey, you ain't leaving yet, are you?" Race hurried back to join them with Mush trailing in his wake.

Spot frowned at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"The night's still young," Race said, shuffling his feet.

"You're all about to settle in for the night, ain't you?" Spot glanced at the lodging house. "What, you want me to tell you a bedtime story?"

Blink guffawed at that and Jack snorted. Mush smiled that smile of his and nudged Race in the side. Race shoved Mush's shoulder and glared around the circle of boys. "We was planning on having a game or two once we got back."

Spot glanced at the sky and shook his head. "It's near to sundown and I've got to be back in time to pay for the night."

"Why?" Race challenged.

"Because that's the rules." Spot lifted his eyebrows.

"Ah, any newsie worth his salt knows how to bend that one," Jack said as he pulled out a cigarette and lit up.

Spot glared at him, wondering if Jack realized how thin the ice below him was. "I didn't get to be leader by accident," he said flatly.

"Who said anything about being leader?" Mush asked. He glanced over his shoulder at the lodging house. "And why are we all standing around out here anyway?"

"I'll be on my way then." Spot nodded at the boys.

"Come on in and play a hand," Race cajoled.

Spot shook his head. "I ain't in the mood."

"What, and you're in the mood to tramp all the way back to Brooklyn?"

Spot opened his mouth, but Jack cut him off. "Give it a rest, Spot." He took a puff on his cigarette. "You've spent the night before and you can do it again tonight."

Spot scowled at him. "I don't want…"

"I said give it a rest." Jack threw his cigarette down and stepped on it. "Race here has been talking all week about you coming over tonight." He gave Spot a dirty look and then sniffed, nodding as if that settled it.

Apparently all the others felt it did as well because they nodded too and began walking down Duane Street. Spot made a face at Race's back and followed them.

* * *

Race glanced at Spot and stifled a sigh. Spot was standing with his legs braced apart and his arms akimbo. It was clear as day he was angry and that shot Race's plans to hell. He had gone out of his way to make sure that they would be alone on the roof and for what? To watch the tick in Spot's jaw? Race snorted.

"What's the matter with you, Spot?" Race asked hands clenched on the wooden railing. "You've been in a foul mood all night."

"You say that as if I don't have any reason to be upset, Racetrack," Spot emphasized Race's name as he crossed his arms defensively over his narrow chest.

Race frowned at him. What was this about anyway? "You don't."

Spot rolled his eyes and trilled, "Oh, Race, you are so very good with your hands," in perfect imitation of Betsy.

Race grinned sheepishly. Betsy could be a bit much, he had to admit, but it was all in good fun. "All right, I shouldn't have let her go on like that, but can you blame me? She's a luscious piece, our Betsy."

Spot's chin angled up, a sure sign that his temper was about to boil over. "Is that so?" he asked in a voice leached of all emotion.

Race gave him a blank look. "You have eyes, don't you?"

Spot shook his head in disgust and made a slashing motion with his hands. "I'm done here."

Race stood where he was, not sure what he was missing, as Spot made his way over towards the fire escape. He had gotten so far as to swing one leg over the edge of the roof before things clicked.

"Wait!" Race called out, rushing across the distance between them.

"What?" Spot didn't bother to turn towards him.

"It's Betsy, ain't it? That's why you're all worked up."

"First," Spot said, slowly turning to face him, "I ain't worked up. Second, you are an idiot. Third," he paused, flexing his hands, "Betsy's a cheap whore and not at all my idea of luscious. So next time you are going to spend all night with some tramp in your lap, make sure she's an attractive one."

"You don't think she was attractive?" Race winced. That was quite possibly the stupidest thing he had ever said in his life.

Spot made a sound that could have been a muffled scream. "You've got bricks for brains!"

A cold breeze ruffled Race's hair as he debated how to respond to that. Deciding that ignoring the outburst was the best option, he motioned towards the angled side of the roof. "How about we take this conversation out of the wind?"

Not exactly his best comeback ever, but at least it hadn't caused Spot to haul off at slug him. Spot gave him a long hard look before inclining his head a fraction. Race grinned in relief and began to walk. It sounded like Spot was grinding his teeth the entire time it took them to make it to the scant protection the two joining walls offered, and Race was pretty sure that he was in for a rough time.

He wasn't exactly sure what he had done wrong, only that he had and that it involved Betsy. Spot clearly didn't like Betsy. Which was a shame, because Race did. She was always up for a laugh and didn't mind that Race never did more than buss her on the cheek at the end of the night. Which was more than he could say for the rest of the girls at Medda's.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and leaned one shoulder against the wall, angling his body to face Spot. "So," he gave a helpless little gesture.

"So what?"

Race slid a hand into his pocket. "Me and Betsy," he took a breath, "it ain't nothing but show."

"That ain't a show I have any interest in watching," Spot sneered.

Race licked his lips. "So I gathered." He kicked at a broken bottle and said, "You could have said something."

Spot laughed. "What, exactly, was I supposed to say?"

Race made a face. "How am I supposed to know if you have a problem with something if you don't tell me?"

"Who said I had a problem?'

"Spot, I'd have to be blind not to see that you're upset."

"I ain't upset!"

"Oh really?" Race widened his eyes. "Then why are you shouting?"

Spot glared at him. "Why did you let that trash hang all over you?"

Race raised his free shoulder in a half shrug. "I didn't think you would mind," he said honestly. He would never have guessed that such a little thing would bother Spot. If he had, he might still have done it, but he wouldn't have let it go on all night. Now he was forced to apologize, which he hated doing. He shoved a hand through his hair and said, "I mean, it was just a bit of fun. Betsy's not," he ran his tongue along his teeth, trying to figure out how to tell Spot that Betsy was a cheap whore and he wouldn't touch her if she paid him to. He let out a breath and said, "She as common as they come, Spot. I wouldn't be surprised if she had the French disease."

"And still you let her sit on your lap and drink from your cup all evening," Spot said sourly.

Race chuckled. "It's Betsy. She would have been offended if I didn't."

Spot crossed his arms again and stared off over Race's shoulder. Race inwardly winced. That clearly had been the wrong thing to say. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to make things better. "It's not as like I kissed her, or anything."

"Have you?"

"What, in the past? No, I told you I think she has the pox."

Spot's eyes narrowed. "Who have you been kissing?" he asked a little too casually.

Race swallowed. "Who says I've been kissing anyone?" he asked, hoping that Spot wouldn't notice the evasion.

Spot worked his jaw a little then said, "How many?"

"I don't know what," Race began, but Spot effectively silence him by shoving him hard against the wall, pinning him against the bricks.

"Answer me, Race. How many people have you kissed?"

Race shifted, trying to find a spot where the uneven bricks didn't stab into him. "Three," he said after a quick mental rundown of the last two months.

Spot's grip tightened and he continued to glare at Race. "Three," he repeated, clearly suspicious.

"Yeah, three. Why would I lie?" Race shifted again and brushed up against Spot. His annoyance at being pressed into the wall vanished in an instant to be replaced by something else entirely.

Spot seemed to be experiencing the same sort of transformation, because he stepped closer and tilted his head slightly down so that his lips met Race's. Race instantly opened his mouth and ran his tongue along the seam of Spot's lips, silently requesting admittance.

Spot's hands loosened their grip, falling away completely as Race slid his hands slid up Spot's back. He pulled Spot into him, rocking his hips side to side, and Spot's mouth opened as Spot fisted his hands in Race's hair. Their tongues rubbed against each other and Race felt the blood pool in his groin as Spot sucked hard on the tip while his teeth scraped down the length. He shuddered as Spot's lips moved against his, moving his hands up to frame Spot's face.

Spot pulled back and began to kiss and nip his way along Race's jaw. The sensation of teeth dragging down his neck brought goose bumps out on his skin and he arched his neck to give Spot better access.

Race felt Spot's fingers tugging at the buttons on his shirt followed a blast of cold air as Spot spread it open. Spot tugged at Race's undershirt, pulling it free from Race's britches and shoving it up around his shoulders. Race shuddered at the feel of Spot's fingers on his bare skin and closed his eyes. He felt Spot's lips graze his nipple and opened them with a start when Spot bit down hard on the flesh surrounding it. Race moaned, bunching his hands in Spot hair and leaning his head back against the wall.

Spot's tongue flicked across Race's nipple while he sucked hard on the skin trapped inside of his mouth. Race arched back, hips pressing tight against Spot. With a final kiss, Spot shifted his attention to Race's other nipple and slid his hand down between them to firmly grasp the bulge in Race's pants.

"God, yes," Race gasped, rocking into that hand.

"Did they make you feel like this?" Spot asked as he stroked Race through the rough fabric. "Those girls, did they make you want them the way you want me?"

Race tried to think of something witty to say, but all that came out was a broken "No."

"Good," Spot said, voice full of satisfaction. And with that, he stepped back, leaving Race to gape at him.

"Spot?" Race whimpered in confusion.

"Race," Spot mocked, straightening his shirt.

"You can't just leave me like this!" Race snapped indignantly.

"Watch me," Spot replied with a smirking.

Race scowled. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Spot laughed. "You want to talk about fair, Racetrack? You spend the night watching me with some penny whore wrapped around my neck and tell me how you feel, why don't you? Then we can talk about fair."

Race didn't stop to think. He reached out and took hold of Spot's suspenders, tugged him close and said, "We're not done yet," a second before latching onto that sweet spot on Spot's neck, right below his ear. Spot shivered and Race felt his heart beat speed up, but within moments he was pushing Race away and glowering at him.

"Yes, we are."

Race ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he said, hating the way the words felt in his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd get so upset. Hell, I didn't even think it would matter. After all, it's not like you haven't done as much."

Spot didn't reply. He simply crossed his arms again and glared up at the sky.

"Christ, Spot!" Race exploded, angry for not realizing that Spot hadn't done the same. He made a pained expression and said, "Damn. I've made a mess of things, didn't I?"

Spot didn't say anything. He just stood there, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ought to crack, and stared at the starts.

"Look, Spot, I didn't know . . . You've got to believe me, I thought we were just . . . I mean, you never said . . ." he trailed off, feeling frustrated and not at all up to explaining himself. "Damn," he growled. Then he spun around and slammed his fist in to the brick wall.

He felt the skin of his knuckles spilt and a wet gush that told him he was going to regret doing this in the morning, but the satisfaction he got from the action overrode his brains protest and he slammed the other fist into the wall as well, gasping at the pain that shot up his arm. He pulled back, ready to do it again, but Spot's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"As much as I like seeing you take that anger of yours out on something other than me, I happen to like your hands in working order more. So stop."

Race breathed heavily, flexing his hands. "I've been stupid," he said as if that was the answer to everything.

"Yeah, you have," Spot replied without a hint of sympathy. "But doing something equally stupid won't make up for it."

Race sighed and looked over his shoulder. "So, no kissing other people, then?"

Spot inclined his head.

"Right. And no letting girls up on my lap either."

Spot inclined his head again.

"Anything else I should know?"

Spot cocked his head to the side, "I'd tell you not to be a complete ass all the time, but I don't think you can do anything about that."

Race scowled. "I'm serious. Tell me what I need to know so that I don't mess things up again."

Spot grinned. "You'll do that anyway."

"Last chance," Race warned, raising his eyebrows. Spot just tightened his grip on Race's shoulder. "Fine. I ain't to blame if you get all riled up over something, because you had your chance and you didn't take it."

Spot chuckled. "Nice try." He let his hand trail down Race's back.

Race turned to face him. "Can we kiss again now?" he asked hopefully.

Spot gave him a wicked grin. "I've got something much more fun in mind," he said as he tugged at the button on Race's britches.

Race grinned and reached out to touch Spot's cheek. Spot's eyes followed the movement and he frowned, dodging out of the way. "What is it now?" Race asked agitated.

"You've got blood all over your hands," Spot stated matter-of-factly. "And I don't want it on me."

"Oh." Race glanced down at his hands. They were, in fact, covered in blood. "That's not good."

"What, you thought pounding on a wall would be?" Spot asked wryly as he removed a handkerchief from his pocket. "You got one of these?" Spot waved the scrap of fabric under Race's nose.

Race nodded.

"Which pocket?"

Race went to dig it out but Spot stopped him with a soft punch to the offending arm.

"I'll do it. You ain't got enough clothes to be ruining a decent pair with blood either."

He reached inside Race's left pocket and rubbed his fingers suggestively against Race's thigh. "Oops." He grinned. "Wrong pocket." He put his other hand in the right pocket and mirrored the movement. "Dear me, wrong again."

Race bit his lips to keep from moaning and pressed his hips forward into Spot's touch. Which Spot promptly removed. "You are a damn tease, Spot," Race groaned, slightly breathless as Spot removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket.

Spot laughed as he tied it around Race's bloody knuckles. "You don't know the half of it." Finished the first hand, he moved on to the second, knotting the ends of the makeshift bandage expertly. He then raised both hands to his lips and kissed each. "Stupid of you," he said offhandedly.

"Thanks for reminding me," Race retorted with a slight frown.

"My pleasure." Spot let go of Race's hands and pulled down on his cap, fitting it firmly in place.

Race took a deep breath and reached out, grabbing Spot's free hand. He guided it down to his erection and placed it firmly on top of the straining fabric. "This needs some attention," he said with a grin.

"It certainly does," Spot agreed as he removed his hand.

"Spot," Race pleaded.

"Shut up," Spot situated himself on a box and reached to unfasten Race's britches.

* * *

Spot resisted the urge to watch Race's face as he deftly undid the button and then pulled at the drawstring of Race's smalls. He smiled at the soft moan Race let out as Spot pushed the fabric aside, freeing Race from the confines of his clothes. Spot glanced up and was rewarded with a look of pure lust on the other boy's fast.

He wrapped his hand around the base of Race's penis and pulled hard towards the head and felt Race's body jerk.

"Christ," Race hissed and Spot flashed him a smug grin.

Race leaned his head back against the wall, arching into Spot's touch. Spot gave him another firm stroke and was pleased to see Race biting him lips to keep from crying out. He repeated the action, but bent forward to lick the tip of the head as his hand reached it. Race's eyes flew open with a hoarse moan.

Keeping eye contact, Spot moistened his lips and then slowly sucked Race into his mouth. He paused when he reached the thick ridge at the bottom of the head and flicked his tongue against the vee. Then he let slid his hand down and mimicked the motion with his mouth. Spot sucked hard as he pulled back, then swirled his tongue around the head.

"Oh God," Race breathed.

Spot let Race fall out of his mouth. "Not God," he corrected. "Spot."

"Spot," Race repeated, as if the name were a prayer.

"That's right." Spot nodded. He tugged on Race's hips, getting the other boy to move closer, and then spit into the palm of his hand. He took hold of Race's penis again and worked his hand up and down in at a leisurely pace. Race bucked his hips at him and moaned.

"Please," he breathed.

Spot worked his hand faster. "Please what?" Race sucked on his bottom lip, his eyes wild. Spot tightened his grip. "Please what, Race?"

"Please," Race begged. "Please do that thing with your tongue and lick and suck and, God, Spot. Just do it again."

Spot chuckled. "Since you asked so nice," he smirked.

* * *

Later, when they had cleaned up and made themselves presentable again, they moved back to the wooden rail and shared a cigarette.

Race leaned close to Spot and let his elbow brush up against the other boy's. "I'm sorry, Spot," he apologized, meaning the words in more ways then he thought possible.

Spot took a long pull on the cigarette and let the smoke drift slowly out of his mouth. "Forget about it," he said shortly and passed the cigarette over.

Race licked his lips. "It's just that, well, you--" He paused and took a puff on the cigarette for courage. Releasing the smoke, he continued. "This matters," he glanced at Spot and hoped that the emotions he was feeling come through despite his lack of words.

Spot took the cigarette from him and took a long drag on it before grinding it out on the rail. He let out the smoke out of his lungs and flicked the butt out over the rail. "This matters to me too," he said softly, once more staring out into the night.


	12. I Don't Want To Talk About It

I Don't Want To Talk About It

_September 21, 1898_

Today had been a fairly decent day, all things considered, and Race was pleased with himself. He had sold out on both edition and done so early enough that is was only late afternoon when he made it back to the Manhattan Lodging house. He smiled as he bounded up the steps and pushed through the door.

Crutchy waved at him from where he was sitting on the steps and then jerked a thumb in the direction of Kloppman's office. "Wants a word with you," he said in explanation.

Race pursed his lips, wondering what Kloppman could have to say as he angled towards the door on the far side of the room. He knocked once and then waited until Kloppman called out before entering.

"You wanted to see me?" Race pulled off his cap and tried to look innocent, just in case.

Kloppman nodded, not bothering to look up from the ledger in front of him. He rubbed his nose and then picked up a grubby looking piece of paper folded in half and held it out. "Came for you this morning, after you boys had left for the day."

Race stepped forward eagerly. "Thanks." He took the paper and saw his name written in Spot's spiky scrawl. "Any thing else?"

"Naw," Kloppman waved a hand, "go do whatever it is you boys do and leave me to my work."

Taking that as the dismissal it was, Race turned on his heel and exited the cramped space, pulling the door closed behind him. He wanted to tear open the makeshift envelope right now and see what Spot had written, but the light was too dim for him to be able to make anything out, so Race hurried towards the stairs. He paused briefly at the landing to the bunk room and then rounded the stairs and thudded his way to the top. There would have been light enough, sure, but there would be a roomful of noisy boys and the last thing he wanted was to have to share whatever Spot said with the rest of the newsies.

When he reached the top, Race saw that the door to the roof was open. That meant that someone was out there as well. Race scowled. He wanted a little peace and quiet to read his letter without having someone asking questions. Well, there was plenty of light right where he was. He could just get a quick look at the note to see what it said and then tuck it into his pocket if it wasn't anything he wanted to share.

Race broke open the seal eagerly and scanned the few lines inside. A smile spread across his face and he bounced on the balls of his feet. He deftly folded the letter and slipped it into his coat pocket before going through the door into the fading sunlight. At first glance the roof seemed deserted, then a flash of movement drew Race's eye and he saw Jack resting against the wall, the remains of an apple sitting by his feet.

"Hey ya, Jack," Race called out, moving towards him. "How's the day treating you?"

Jack scrambled to his feet, a lopsided grin on his face. "Racetrack! I haven't seen you in before dusk in over a month."

Race scratched the back of his head as he walked towards his friend. "Ah, well, bum headlines, you know."

"I know all right. Can't tell you how happy I was to see them today. Murder always sells, and this one," he whistled. "Couldn't have asked for better."

"Double homicide," Race answered with a grin. "And even better, the wife's the one who offed 'em. Gonna make for a sensational trial and you know what that means."

"Yeah, hot meals and warm beds every night for at least a month." Jack shook his head with a smile then ambled over to where Race had stopped. He nudged Race's side with his elbow. "Gives a fella reason to celebrate."

Race nodded to himself. It did indeed. His fingers brushed against his pocket and the note it contained and wondered if this windfall was behind Spot's impending visit. Race glanced up and saw Jack studying him thoughtfully. Something about the look in Jack's eyes bothered him, but Race forced himself to smile in spite of it.

Jack slung his arm over Race's shoulder and gave him a lazy grin. Race gave him a shaky one in response and put his arm around Jack's waist the way he normally would. They stood there for a moment and then the thing he had been dreading happened. Jack bent his head, angling in for a kiss. Race waited until the last moment, frantically debating with himself, before turned his head and Jack's lips grazed his cheek instead.

Jack pulled back, his brow furrowed. "What gives?"

Race lifted a shoulder, fingers flexing, bunching up the fabric of Jack's shirt. "Things are different."

"Different how?" Jack tilted his head to the side as he studied Race's face. He ran his hand slowly up and down Race's back and Race didn't bother to stop him.

He cleared his throat, unsure how to explain something he didn't rightly understand himself. Race scratched the back of his head and said, "Me and Spot," he paused. "Things between us are, well, we're close, you know?"

"I noticed." Jack nuzzled Race's neck.

Race blew out a breath and moved away. Jack gave him a puzzled look and Race tried again. "Look, Spot gets all riled up over certain things and I'm sure you've noticed how pleasant he is when he's riled up, right?"

Jack chuckled, his arm tightening around Race's shoulder. "I'd have to be blind not to."

Race laughed nervously. "Yeah, well, like I said, Spot ain't too fond of me doing certain things and so I ain't gonna do them."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Haven't you been listening to anything I've said?" Race pinched Jack's hip.

Jack slapped at his hand and said, "Sure I have."

Race gave him a hard stare. "Oh, you have?"

"Spot gets his back up and you ain't happy about it," Jack's eyes crinkled. "See, I did listen."

Race shook his head and smiled in spite of himself. "I like you Jack, you know that."

Jack gave that slow smile of his and shifted so that he was facing Race. "Of course you do."

"You still ain't listening." Race let go of Jack and stepped away. "You're my friend, Jack, and you always will be, but I ain't going to be kissing you any more."

"Wait, what?" Jack sucked on his lower lip and looked so confused that Race had to laugh.

Jack gave him a blank look and Race cleared his throat awkwardly. Clearly Jack was not amused. Trying to inject humor into the situation, Race shook his head and clapped Jack on the back. "Comic genius, that's what you are."

"I ain't laughing," Jack muttered with a frown.

Race rolled his eyes, this wasn't working. "You would be if you could see your face," he muttered half-heartedly.

Jack ignored the comment. He rubbed the side of his mouth with his thumb. "So, you're saying that we can't," he waggled a hand, "on account of Spot Conlon?"

"Finally, you're listening," Race teased.

Jack continued to stare at him with that baffled look on his face. "But we've been, you know, since you first came to Manhattan."

"And?" Race was not sure where Jack was going with this.

"And now we've got to stop, just like that, because Spot Conlon don't like it?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, hell."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Race laughed and pushed aside Jack's hat to tousle his hair, feeling relieved. He didn't want to be having this conversation by any means and he would be a whole heap happier once it was over, but even his discomfort couldn't dull Jack's charm.

Jack widened his eyes and gave Race his most beguiling stare. "Ah, Race, you don't mean that." He moved forward and laid his head on Race's shoulder. His breath was warm on Race's neck as his arms circled around Race's waist. "Say you don't mean it," he murmured a moment before kissing Race's neck.

"Damn it, Jack!" Race exploded, jerking away from his friend and slugging him on the arm, all his good feelings for the boy going out the window. "Go charm Medda's girls," he spit out, giving him a filthy look.

"Ain't one of them as fun to kiss as you," Jack stated, once more moving into Race's personal space.

Race cursed. He knew it was Jack's nature to wheedle what he wanted out of a fella, but that didn't mean Race liked it. He lightly slapped Jack's cheek to get his point across and jeered, "Then why were you lip locked with that little blonde all last night?"

Jack flashed an unrepentant grin. "Sally's a doll, Race, but she ain't nothing to you."

Race rolled his eyes. Damn that Jack and his inability to take no for an answer. "Try another one, Jack. Something I'm likely to believe," he said coldly.

Jack's grin faded and his eyes filled with something Race couldn't define. "You're breaking my heart," Jack murmured, the words lacking that playful quality Race was used to.

The anger and frustration drained out of him and Race felt in over his head. Jack was the best friend he had ever had and Race didn't want to make a muck of things between them. He cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to make light of the subject. "You and me ain't nothing but a good time."

"I know that." Jack's grin was back in place, but Race didn't trust it.

_What the hell am I supposed to say to that?_ Race wondered. Guilt seeped into him as he was forced to acknowledge that Jack's take on what was going on between them was a hell of a lot different from his own. God damn it all to hell. This was Spot's doing. If not for him and his stupid rules, Race wouldn't be here now. Race stifled his anger, knowing that it would only set Jack's teeth on edge. He let his face smooth out and pulled on a slightly mocking smile, then reached up and tugged on Jack's bandanna. "You'll find someone else to slobber over. Someone who will be thrilled to listen to your lies."

Jack stood facing him for a long moment, and then moved so quickly that Race didn't realize he was being kissed until it was over. "I ain't never lied to you," he said in that same quiet voice. Then he turned his back and quickly walked towards the stairwell.

Race watched him go, mentally rehashing all of their previous conversations and wondered for the first time if Jack had actually meant all those pretty things he had said and how it would change things between them if he had.

*~*~*

Spot was feeling as fit as a fiddle as he rounded the corner and made his way across the street to the Manhattan lodging house. He glanced up at the roof and saw a familiar silhouette. It figured. He told Race to meet him out front and instead the bum was up on the roof. Spot shook his head and let out a snort. Race was just lucky he was so fond of him.

Smiling in spite of himself, Spot moved towards the door preparing to open it, when it burst open and Jack came storming out. He gave Spot a look that made Spot want to soak him as he stalked past.

"You gotta problem?" Spot jeered at Jack's back.

Jack didn't even bother to turn around. Deciding that whatever had gotten Jack's dander up didn't have squat to do with him, Spot strode into the building. He started up the stairs, all but running up them.

"You in some sort of a rush?" Blink was leaning against the wall outside of the bunk room.

"I'm important, ain't I?" Spot shot back. "My time is too valuable to waste."

Blink laughed. "That head of yours just keeps getting bigger and bigger."

"Wouldn't want it any other way." Spot called over his shoulder as he kept heading up. As much as he enjoyed crossing his wits with Blink, he wasn't about to let the other boy slow him down. He wanted to take Race somewhere special and they were quickly running out of sunlight.

Spot paused to catch his breath at the top, tugging on his shirt and brushing at the wrinkles in his britches. He adjusted his cap and then took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Race was leaning against the rail, a cigar clamped in his teeth. Spot instantly frowned. Race didn't light up one of those unless something was bothering him.

Seeing his plans for the evening going up in overpriced Cuban smoke, Spot gritted his teeth. He knew that he would have to plan things just right if he wanted to get out of here without Race losing his temper. He ran his tongue around his lips, frantically trying to come up with a plan of attack.

"You gonna stand there all night or what?" Race snapped around his cigar.

Spot moved towards him. "Might, if the view stays as nice."

Race snorted. "I ain't in the mood for flattery."

Inwardly snarling, Spot made his voice honeyed as he answered, "All right, flattery is out. Hows about you come over here and let me make you more comfortable."

With a roll of the eyes, Race replied. "Look, I've got a lot on my plate right now."

Spot bristled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Race's brow furrowed and he let out a puff of blue smoke. Spot had to force himself not to wrinkle his nose at the acrid smell. Race knew damned wall how much Spot hated those cigars of his and he wasn't even attempting to keep the foul things away from him. Race turned to look out on the city.

"I don't want to talk about it, so just leave off."

"Leave what?"

Race lifted a shoulder and flicked ash out over the rail. Spot waited for an answer that never came. He yanked his cap off of his head and balled it in his hands. He could see that Race wasn't going to be changing his mood any time soon, but Spot didn't want to leave. He hadn't seen Race for over a week and didn't know when he would have time to make the journey over the bridge again.

Sure, Race could drop by and see him, but Spot didn't have time to spare maybe a half hour or so even if he did. And besides, having Race around wasn't good for his image. Spot let out a frustrated sigh. He wanted Race happy and he wanted him happy now. The problem was that he didn't know how to make that happen.

Dashing a hand through his hair, he started again. "Something put your back up, I can see that plain as day." Race snorted but Spot just bulled on through. "And you don't want to talk about it. Fine. So don't talk. But don't let it spoil my night."

Race rolled his eyes. "Spoil your night?" he scoffed.

"That's right." Spot gave Race a cocky smile.

"You're something else, you know that?" Race removed the cigar and let out a mouthful of smoke. He shook his head and then clamped his teeth around the cigar again. "What did you want to see me for?"

Spot lifted a shoulder. "Got a little extra jingle in my pocket, thought you might want to help me spend it."

"You? Splurging?" Race gave him an incredulous look. "Has hell got an ice rink too?"

"Laugh all you want," Spot offered. "Meanwhile I'll be down the street spending my dough and you'll be sitting up here stinking up the night."

"Hey, I ain't stinking up nothing."

Spot gave him a smirk. "Sure you ain't."

"You think this is helping your case any?" Race glowered at him.

"You'll come out with me."

"Oh yeah?"

Spot sighed. "Race, it's been a week since we --" he cleared his throat, feeling awkward. Damn it, why did Race have to get all in a lather on the one night that Spot was free? He slapped his cap back on his head and made a face. "Pass up this chance and you'll regret it," he finished lamely, hoping it would be enough.

It must have been, because Race pulled the cigar out of his mouth and ground it out against the rail. He slipped it into his breast pocket and cocked his head to the side. "What will I regret?" he challenged.

"This," Spot said, closing the distance between them and tugging Race into a kiss. Race tasted like cigar, which Spot hated almost as much as the smell, but Race's lips moved against his and unimportant things like taste simply disappeared.

Race pulled back, a smirk of his own firmly in place. "Been missing me then?"

Spot scowled. Of course he had, but seeing Race look so smug didn't do nothing for him. Then again, a smug Race was better than an angry Race, so Spot did his best to swallow his pride. He forced his features into something halfway pleasant and said, "Don't I always," with only a hint of repugnance.

"Ah, come on, it ain't like you're getting your teeth pulled," Race teased and Spot felt his prospects brighten.

Spot leveled a hard look on him. He was willing to let things slide if Race was. Race just shrugged, his eyes bright with laughter. Spot nodded, then hooked a finger in his belt look and cocked his head to the side, fixing a confident smile on his face. "Come on, let's blow this joint."

Race glanced at the sky, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Heard that there's a game going down on your side of the bridge," he ventured.

Spot pursed his lips, considering, then shook his head. "Naw. You know I can't let my guard down over there and tonight all I want to concentrate on is . . . " he let his voice trail off suggestively.

"Things going all right?" Race's tone wasn't at all the one that he had wanted, but there was concern and that was enough to make Spot's chest puff up in pleasure.

"Had a bit of trouble last Monday. Nothing to worry your little head over."

Race's fist connected solidly with Spot's shoulder. "I ain't worried."

Spot resisted the urge to rub it, choosing instead to start walking towards the stairway. "You know I won't discuss my business where anyone could overhear."

Race made a face. "You ain't high enough up in the world to be worried about that sort of thing."

"Says you," Spot shot back as he began to tramp down the stairs.

"You gonna tell me or what," Race demanded, thundering down after him.

Spot glanced over his shoulder, thrilled with the expression he saw on Race's face. "Patience is a virtue."

"Yeah, one that I don't got."

"So I noticed." Spot pushed open the front door and stepped into the last of the evening's sunlight. He started down the street at a fast clip that Race more than easily matched. "Just a little ruckus stirred up by that gobshite, Lefty. Broke it up pretty easily, not even a bloody knuckle to show for the effort. Like I said, nothing to give a moment's thought to."

Actually, it had been an all-out rumble that left one of his boys with a broken nose and another laid out cold, but Spot didn't see as how that was Race's business. Besides, what would he do if he knew? Nothing. So Spot saw no reason to go into details about something over and done with.

"Little ruckus?" Race raised his eyebrows. "Hope you belted that rat bastard good. The only thing he understands is the back of your hand."

Spot chuckled. Lefty had walked away from the fight with less teeth than he had started it with and Spot couldn't have been more satisfied. No one was going to be muscling on his turf, especially not a loud-mouth jackass like Lefty. "I did him good for you, Race."

Race slipped his hands in his pockets, a smile on his face. "So, where are we heading?" he asked as they turned down another street.

"Midtown."

"Midtown?"

"Yeah." Spot gave him a wide grin. "There's this restaurant I want to go to. I think you might like it."

Race gave him an amused look. "A restaurant? In Midtown?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?" Spot replied.

"Let me guess, tri-colored awning? Outdoor seating? And the prettiest serving girls this side of the Atlantic?"

"I don't know about the girls, but the rest sounds right." Spot rubbed his chin. "You been there before or something?"

"I might," Race answered with a laugh.

"Well, damn," Spot pretended to be vexed but inwardly preening at the sappy look on Race's face. "And here I had hoped it would be a nice surprise."

Race jostled against him, shoulders bumping. "It is."


	13. Where Were You Last Night?

Where Were You Last Night

_December 15, 1898_

Race smiled at the man as he handed over his last paper. He tipped his cap, saying, "Have a pleasant day, mister." The man nodded once, flipped open the paper and began to walk away, his head bent towards the newsprint.

Race shoved his hands deep in his pockets and began to whistle as he contemplated what he would do with the rest of his day. It had been a good headline, for once, and so he had more free time then he had counted on. He took a deep breath and turned towards the betting window, then shook his head. One good headline did not make up for the last month or so of bad ones.

With a resigned sigh, he turned his back on the betting window and kicked at a pebble. A horn blared, announcing the start of a race. Race glanced up at the stands and smiled. Just because he wasn't betting didn't mean he couldn't still enjoy a race or two before time to head home.

He ambled over towards the track and leaned against the rail. From down here he wouldn't be able to see much of the action, but only people with bets were welcomed up in the stands. At least he got a closer look at the horses down here. Maybe he would be able to spot something that would give him an edge tomorrow, providing the headlines were up to snuff two days in a row.

The horses pounded past, so close that Race could hear the jockeys egging them on. He pushed back his cap, feeling that familiar rush. Race leaned against the rails, hollering at their backs. A cloud passed over the sun and Race glanced up. It wasn't a thunderhead and for that he was grateful. Rain would mean selling somewhere dry in Manhattan and even a good headline wouldn't make up for the difficulties Race had selling on the street.

Race scowled and decided that he ought to take Jack up on his offer to sell together this winter after all. He hadn't wanted to, not with Spot's tendency to jump to all the wrong conclusions, but Race wasn't exactly in the mood to sooth Spot's feathers. Even if he was, he would be a fool to pass it up.

Jack was good. Real good. And Race, well, he always had trouble selling outside of Sheepshead. Maybe Race could figure out what he was doing wrong, and what to do about it, if he spent enough time studying Jack's moves. He nodded to himself. Race had told Jack he would go out with him and a couple of the others tonight. That would be as good a time as any to mention a willingness to partner up.

His stomach growled and Race pushed off of the rail. Might as well find something to eat. He gave the sky another look and decided that he would risk heading out to Coney Island. If he was going to talk to Jack tonight he might find himself selling in Manhattan as soon as tomorrow. And that meant that Race had better get his fill of hotdogs now, because otherwise he might not taste them again until next spring.

He started whistling again as he began to make his way to the gate. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the joints and hitched up his britches as he walked along. Selling with Jack would mean that winter wouldn't be near as lean as he was used to it being. He might even be able to save up enough so that come spring he would be able to sit in the stands again. He smiled to himself at the thought.

Midway to the gate, Race lost his smile.

"Spot." The name was bitter in his mouth. Race tried not to frown and forced himself to keep his arms at his sides. Of course Spot would be here. Race was having a decent time, wasn't he? So naturally Spot would show up. And odds were that Spot would do something to lessen Race's good time. Hell, just showing up lessened it.

Race watched as Spot strolled towards him, that stupid smirk spread wide all over Spot's face. Race sucked on his teeth and then pulled out a cigar and quickly lit it. He pulled deeply on the end and blew the pungent smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Fine. Spot was here. Race would deal with it; he wasn't going to let Spot ruin the first good day Race had had in a long time. No way, no how.

Spot's lips compressed at the sight of the cigar, but he didn't mention it as he joined Race. "Finished already?" his voice was a lazy drawl.

Race nodded curtly. He bit on the end of his cigar, determined not to say anything. With another nod, Race began to walk again. He wasn't about to change his plans on account of Spot. Not this time.

Spot matched his pace without a word of protest. Normally this would have lightened Race's mood, but today it just made him even more irritated. He wasn't in a forgiving frame of mind and would much rather have had Spot snarl at him instead of silently going along with his lead.

Race continued to brood as they walked out the gates and into the surrounding city. He kept his eyes forward and ignored the way Spot cleared his throat. If Spot wanted to say something, he could damned well say it, but Race wasn't about to make it easier for him.

He made a right and fought to keep at the same pace he normally maintained when walking with Spot. Race was mad as hell, but he didn't want Spot knowing that. At least, not yet. So he kept his temper on a tight rein and chewed furiously on the end of his cigar instead of confronting the other boy.

Spot cleared his throat again and said, "Coney Island?" Race grunted an agreement. "What's with you?" Spot's voice sounded puzzled, which made Race's tight grip on his temper disappear.

"What do you think is with me?" Race snapped.

Spot raised his eyebrows mockingly. "Are you sour over last night?" Race hated the laughter in Spot's words. He blew smoke in Spot's face and then raised his own eyebrows. "Come on," Spot cajoled. "You ain't got your nose out of joint over that, now have you?"

Race blew more smoke and was pleased when Spot made a face while waving it away. He lengthened his stride and shoved his hands back into his pockets. Behind him he heard Spot mutter a string of curses and the pleased feeling in his chest grew.

Spot knew damned well that Race was angry with him. Spot knew because Race had made a point of telling Mac and Ginger as much. Race furrowed his brow. He didn't like being jerked about and lately Spot had gotten into the habit of doing just that. Things had come to a head last night. Well, for Race they had anyway.

He had received a message from Spot yesterday, early in the afternoon, telling Race to meet him at the Brooklyn lodging house at sunset. So Race had broken his plans with Dutchy and Specs and made the trek to Brooklyn, the way he always did went Spot sent for him. But this time all he found in Brooklyn was Mac and Ginger smoking on the stoop. Spot, it seemed, had decided not to wait for Race after all.

Mac had told Race that Poole, Fagan, and a couple of the older boys had asked Spot to come with them to Maloney's and Spot had left Mac at the lodging house to make sure that Race knew where to find him. Which Race had been in no mood to do. Maloney's. Maloney's, the favorite haunt of Too Tall and his gang of ne'er-do-wells. Race knew what that meant, all right. Another night of sitting on the sidelines while Spot acted tough and Too Tall talked big and made snide remarks about reflected glory.

Race puffed on his cigar and angled in front of Spot as he crossed the busy street. He heard Spot mutter darkly behind him and sent a nasty smile over his shoulder. His effort was wasted, as Spot wasn't looking in Race's direction, but out across the city. Race frowned and returned his attention to where he was going.

"Stop throwing a fit."

Race jerked and nearly stumbled. He glared at Spot. "I ain't throwing a fit."

Spot slugged Race in the arm. "I said stop it."

"What the hell was that for?" Race spun towards Spot, his hands coming up in fists.

Spot gave him a smug look. "Why are you walking so fast?"

"Why are you here?"

"Do you always have to answer ever question with a question?"

"Do you?"

Spot sucked on his teeth. "I came to see you, you bonehead."

"Well, you saw me." Race spun on his heel and began to walk.

"Don't make me hit you again," Spot warned.

Race made a disgusted noise but slowed his pace. "Just tell me what you want." Race was resigned. He would play Spot's game, the same way he always did, because he had no choice. Spot laughed and Race made a face. Spot wasn't the least bit upset.

"Don't take it so personally," Spot advised. "It ain't like you was done any harm by it."

"Yeah, cause I like walking all the way to Brooklyn. That's my idea of fun."

Spot shook his head. "I left Mac and Ginger. It ain't my fault that you decided not to join the boys and me."

"You know how I feel about Maloney's."

Spot sighed. "You got a problem with Too Tall. And for no damn reason. I've told you it's just business with him."

Race rolled his eyes. "I ain't jealous, if that's what you've aiming at. I just don't see why you just had to run on over there. Nothing you said to him couldn't have waited till I got there. You knew I was coming."

"Hell, Race, I ain't sitting at home waiting for you when there's important matters to be dealt with."

"Important matters," Race snorted. "I'd give you good odds that all he wanted was to preen a little about how his little band of nothings are strong arming their way into the waterfront. Like you didn't pull out of there well over a month ago on account of the profit margins being so dismal."

"If it weren't for how terrible you are with the ponies, I'd mark you for a clairvoyant." Spot grinned and attempted to sling his arm over Race's shoulder, but Race shoved him off.

"Like I said, nothing you couldn't wait to talk about."

"What's it matter to you anyway?" Spot snapped. "I left the boys. It didn't hurt you any to walk over without me."

"And look like I'm some sort of lackey, coming when you call?" Race scowled. "You're stupider than you look."

It was Spot's turn to roll his eyes. "Nobody thinks you are a lackey. No one with brains, that is."

"Cause that's what Too Tall's got. Brains."

Spot gave a whooping laugh. "Ah, Race, every time I start thinking that maybe you aren't worth the headache, you go and say things like that."

"So I'm a headache, am I?" Race stopped walking and glared at him.

Spot rubbed his eyebrow and grinned. "Always have been and always will be."

Race wanted to snap out something about what, exactly, Spot was a pain in, but knew it wouldn't improve matters any. So he took a deep breath and tried a different tactic. "I had plans, you know," he ground out. "Dutchy and Specs had a night to remember and I would have too, if I hadn't rushed on over to Brooklyn last night. And you weren't even there to greet me. All I got for my efforts was sore feet and an earful from Mac about some game he ain't got pockets deep enough to be playing in."

"Oh ho, you had plans. Well that just changes everything," Spot mocked.

Race gave him a dirty look. "You could say you're sorry."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, Spot. Why would you?" Race took a deep breath and started walking again. He went swiftly, letting the silence between them deepen until he couldn't take it anymore. The hotdog stand beckoned from only a few feet away and Race decided that enough was enough. He gave Spot a filthy look and then broke into a fast jog. Spot called curses at his back, but Race ignored him.

He joined the short queue and crossed his arms over his chest, staring up into the sky. By the time Spot joined him, he had made it to the front of the line. "Two dogs," he said, pushing his money under the window. Race took the food and handed one to Spot.

"That was pointless," Spot commented as he began to load up his hotdog.

"Just eat your food."

"Don't you tell me what to do."

Race didn't reply. He made up his dog in silence and then moved to a nearby bench. He settled himself on it and grunted when Spot joined him a moment later. He shifted away from Spot, took a bite and grinned. No matter what was going on, a fully loaded dog would always make things better.

"What I don't understand is why you're sore in the first place." Spot picked an onion off his dog and flicked it at Race. "I've told you from the start that Brooklyn comes first."

Race swatted it away. "Use your brain, Spot." He sighed with Spot just stared at him. "This ain't about Brooklyn."

"Then what is it about? I left Mac." Spot's tone was petulant.

"I didn't come to see Mac."

Spot gave him a look. "He was gonna tell you were I was."

Race took a large bite and chewed slowly, not knowing how to put his thoughts into words. How did he tell Spot what it was like for him these days? They almost never saw each other any more, not that Race was blaming Spot for that. After all, he'd known what it would be like when he had signed on. But more and more it seemed like not just Brooklyn was coming first.

He frowned and shook his head. Spot seemed to be getting more distant with every day and Race didn't know what to do about it. He tried dropping by without invitation, tried making himself more of a part of the Brooklyn lodging house, and had been told off soundly by Spot for his efforts. Seemed that Spot didn't want anyone hinting about favoritism or some such. So Race had stopped. He only showed up when Spot asked him to and that use to be all right. But, Spot -- well, he wasn't asking so much any more.

In fact, Race could count on one hand how many times he had received an invite to Brooklyn in the last month. And still have fingers left over. Which worried him more than it ought to. Then to show up and not even have Spot there to greet him? Well that was just that last straw, as far as he was concerned. It was clear as day that Race wasn't very high on Spot's list and Race couldn't see how to do anything about it.

Race blew out a breath and took another bite, avoiding the other boy's eyes. How could he tell Spot that he felt like what they had was slipping away? And that Spot didn't give a damn about letting it go? He wasn't comfortable talking about his feelings most of the time, and the situation he found himself in made him twice as uncomfortable with the idea.

Worst of all, Race had a sneaking suspicion that Spot wouldn't care what Race thought. After all, Spot had ignored Race's objections before. Spot had just laughed and said it was what was expected of him of leader. Had told Race that of course he didn't have as much time now as he used to and that Race should just get use to things they way there were now and stop living in the past. And if that wasn't bad enough, Spot had had the gall to call Race jealous. Of goddamn Brooklyn.

Race wasn't jealous. He just didn't like being ignored.

And that was what happened whenever the slightest hint of 'business' came up. Then Spot would roll up his shirt sleeves and push back his cap and Race would find himself yawning over a hand of cards and wishing that at least one of the boys was as fine a cardsharp as he was. What was the point of coming to see Spot if Spot was just going to huddle up with his second all night and leave Race to fend for himself?

Race thought about the roiling feeling in his stomach when Spot blew him off and scowled. He forced himself to swallow the tasteless hotdog and take another bite.

Spot picked another onion off of his dog and flicked it at Race. Race glared at him. "You gonna eat that or what?"

"I'm eating it," Spot said. "See?" he took a tiny bite.

Race snorted and turned his attention to the people walking past, trying to get his mind off of his problems. A little boy caught his eye. The child couldn't be more than four or five and was running ahead of his parents. They smiled fondly at him as they walked arm in arm. Race stared at the family, wondering if his parents had ever gone on walks like that with him. He shook his head at the direction his thoughts had taken. Race glanced down at the remains of the hotdog in his lap and sighed.

"Full?"

Race looked at the half a dog left on Spot's lap and grinned. He popped the end of his in his mouth and reached for Spot's. Spot slapped his hand away. Race glowered at him and Spot laughed.

"You're not eating it," he groused.

"Sure I am," Spot made a show of taking a bite.

Race wiped his hands on his britches and then rubbed the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He ran his tongue along his teeth and then stood. "Well, it was sure nice seeing you," he said insincerely and mockingly tipped his cap.

Spot grabbed hold of his cane and hooked it through Race's legs. Race stumbled as Spot applied pressure to his knees.

"Sit down," Spot ordered.

Race cursed but complied. He leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. "You not done then?" he snipped. Spot nibbled on his dog in response and Race made a face. "I've got things to do."

"No you don't."

"Yeah, I do."

Spot snorted and took another nearly invisible bite. Race made a rude hand gesture and wished that he had something fun he could tell Spot about. Unfortunately, his plans consisted of talking to Jack about selling together and then seeing if Blink and Mush were up for a game of lottery. Still, talking about Jack would most likely rile Spot up.

"I'm gonna sell with Jack this winter," Race mentioned causally.

Spot started. "What?"

"He asked me if I was up for it and I've decided to say yes."

Spot sneered. "You and Jacky-boy, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you didn't sell with a partner."

Race lifted one shoulder. "I don't. But Jack, well he's different, isn't he?"

"Different how?" Spot gave up pretending to eat and sat straight up with his arms ridged at his side.

Race gave him a wide smile. "Hard to say. It's just Jack, you know."

"No, I don't know." Spot began to tap his foot impatiently.

"Well, I want to get back home and tell him. So if you don't mind," Race stood again.

"I mind."

"I was just being polite."

"Sit back down." Spot tilted up his head and Race suppressed a sigh. He sat down heavily and kicked Spot's cane. It clattered to the ground and Spot glared at him as he bent to pick it up. "There was no call for that."

"It was an accident."

"Like hell it was."

"I don't see why you're sore. It ain't like it did you any harm."

Spot's eyes narrowed. "All right, you made your point. Now stop acting like a baby."

Race shifted in his seat and knocked against the cane. It fell to the ground and Race smirked. Spot socked him in the arm. "Pick it up."

"You pick it up."

"You knocked it over."

"So."

Spot scowled. "So pick it up."

Race leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Make me."

Spot gave him a dirty look and snatched up the cane, making sure to place it on his far side, well out of Race's reach. "Christ, Race, how old are you?"

"Old enough."

"That put me in my place." Spot fiddled with the bun.

"Eat it or give it to me, but stop playing with the damned thing," Race snapped, irritated.

* * *

Spot considered his options and frowned. He pulled the meat free from the bun and popped it in his mouth. He tossed the bun on the ground in front of him. Instantly a seagull swooped down, snatching up the discarded food before Spot had finished chewing.

Race was angry.

Race was very angry. And Spot's plan for making him not angry had been dead on arrival. He stifled a sigh and picked at a loose thread on his britches. How come things never played out the way he planned when it came to Race? He licked his lips and tried to think of a way to salvage the situation. Nothing came to mind.

Things had been going off course with Race for months now and Spot was having no luck putting them back on track. Race had all but stopped coming to Brooklyn of his own accord and Spot felt stupid having to send a message whenever he wanted to see Race. It use to be that a day didn't go by without Race dropping in. Now two weeks would pass without a peep. That bothered Spot.

This idea of Race selling with Jack bothered him, too. Race already spent far too much time with Jack as it was and Spot didn't like the thought of the two of them becoming even closer. He scowled and shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

Beside him, Race frowned. He pulled out that stupid cigar and lit it. Spot watched the way Race's lips closed around the end and swallowed. He missed selling with Race. Hell, he just plain missed being around Race. And he wanted Race to miss him. But apparently that wasn't the case.

And now Race was angry with him.

If Spot had known what a tizzy Race would work himself into, he never would have headed out to conference with that rat bastard Too Tall without him. He honestly hadn't thought that Race would mind. Mac and Ginger were friends of Race's and so Spot had chosen to leave them behind to give Race the news about where they would be spending their evening.

Besides, it would have put Too Tall's nose right out of joint to see Spot consorting with Manhattan's second. Because, damned if that wasn't what Race had gone and turned into. Those boys over the bridge might think they had no social structure, but that didn't changes the facts none and Spot would be damned if he didn't use it to his advantage.

He had waited impatiently, fending off the sneering comments from Too Tall's goons, for over an hour only to be disappointed when Mac had shown up without Race in tow. And not only was Race not there, but he had a sharply worded message of his own. One that Mac had done his best to deliver without laughing.

Spot picked up his cane and rested it across his lap. He had come out to Sheepshead in an attempt to smooth things over, but Race wasn't into the mood to be smoothed. Hell, Race wasn't pleased to see him, didn't want his company, and obviously wasn't feeling the lack of him.

Spot gritted his teeth as the awkward silence drew out. He glanced at Race and saw Race staring off, a thoughtful look on his face. "You doing anything other than buddying up with Jacky-boy today?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Race leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "What's it matter to you? You aren't part of 'em."

"Did I say that I was?" Spot spit back.

"Piss off, already, why don't you?"

"Let me guess, you're going to hit up Blink and Mush for a game. Or head off with three or four others to Medda's." Spot smirked. "Like any of that is a state secret."

"If you already know, then why bother to ask?" Race rubbed his eye. "Why's everything got to be so hard with you?"

"Because that's the way you like it."

"Hardly," Race scoffed.

Spot gave him a confident grin but inside his thoughts churning. Race's comment hit too close to home for comfort. He wanted to ask why Race had stopped coming to see him. He wanted to find out the reason Race hadn't joined him at Maloney's last night. Hell, he wanted to ask why Race was so damned prickly all of a sudden.

It seemed like tempers flared every time they got together, no matter how Spot tried to prevent it. Yeah, he was surly bastard himself at times, but Race was just as bad. And Race wasn't dealing with the pressure of running Brooklyn. No one ever came to Race with a black eye and a missing tooth demanding retribution. No one ever arrived on Race's doorstep with lips blue from the cold and not enough money to cover the price of a bed, let alone the next day's papers.

What call did Race have to be so pissy?

Spot spent nearly all his free time with Race. Spot went out of his way to try and find extra time for them to share together. Just three weeks ago he had surprised Race with a box of fine cigars, even though he hated the damn things. He put things aside that he shouldn't and ignored the murmurs of favoritism that had sprung up. If he could, Spot would spend ever spare moment with Race. And that still wouldn't be enough.

Spot glared at Race, angry at the unsettling feelings the other boy caused. He pursed his lips and tried to think of something to say. He had wanted to spend the rest of the day with Race, and even cleared his afternoon with that intention in mind. Unfortunately, Race couldn't wait to be rid of Spot.

Spot fiddled with his cane, switching his grip on it so that the end rested between his knees. He licked his lips, wishing he had something to drink and leaned back against the bench. With a cool eye, he surveyed the area.

Spot let his hand drift casually over, brushing against Race's leg, and was pleased when Race didn't instantly shift away. Encouraged, Spot scooted closer to him on the bench. He pressed his leg into Race's and let his arms dangle over the back of the bench.

Race gave him a sideways look. "You all right there, Spot?"

Spot slid his arm forward so that it was resting against Race's back, his hand cupping Race's shoulder. Instead of moving away like Spot expected, Race pressed back. Spot licked his lips again. His heartbeat sped up and he tightened his grip. Race's lips twitched up.

"Living dangerous, are we?"

"Ain't nothing wrong with what we are doing," Spot said out of the side of his mouth. He swallowed and let his fingers move up and down on Race's shoulder.

Race glanced around and then darted in and kissed Spot on the neck. He pulled back quickly, a smirk playing about his lips, even as he checked again to make sure that no one had noticed. Spot let his free hand slide across his leg until it brushed against Race's. Then he swallowed and sneaked a quick kiss of his own. Race smiled, his whole face lighting up. Spot cleared his throat and looked away, but he didn't drop his hand and Race didn't move.

They sat there in total silence and Spot couldn't ever remember being happier.


	14. It's None of Your Concern

It's None of Your Concern

_January 28, 1899_

Spot stood there for a moment, taking in what Race had just said, trying to figure out a way to respond that wouldn't send Race over the edge. It was clear as day that he was nearly there, with the way he was standing looking so mule-headed with his hands all but clenched into fists and that angry gleam in his eye. Damn it all to hell. Didn't Race know how hard this was for him? Couldn't he tell that all Spot wanted was a little breathing room, some time away from the lodging house and the devil's snare that was waiting for him back there?

"Well, ain't you going to say anything?" Race demanded.

Spot turned out towards the ocean, his hands flexing on the wooden railing and mentally counted to ten. He had to play this just right, keep his cool and maintain his authority, or his plan to spend some quality time with Race was going to blow up in his face. He turned around slowly, his face as blank as he could make it. "This is a Brooklyn matter." Spot's voice was all business, flat and devoid of emotion. "So don't be sticking your nose where it don't belong."

Race gave him a measuring look. "You think I don't have any say in this?"

"I know you don't." Spot lifted his chin. "You want say, then you can damn well join Brooklyn. So long as you ain't one of us you ain't got any input." He shook his head. "Hell, even if you were part of Brooklyn, you still wouldn't be putting your two cents in. This is between me and Mac. And there ain't nothing anyone can do or say to change my mind."

Race snorted, swung around and walked out of the small enclosure, down towards the end of the dock. He stood there a moment, no doubt shivering in his shoes, before heading back. He stopped a few feet away from Spot, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a thoughtful look on his face. "Why are you taking such a hard line with him anyway?"

Spot ran a hand over his face, deciding in that moment to try and reason things out. He held out a hand and said, "Mac's had one too many chances. You know that as well as I do, Race."

"Sure, he's had some rough patches," Race admitted with a shake of his head, "but Mac's a good kid. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Spot grimaced. "You know right well it doesn't."

"He's one of the most loyal boys in the house."

"And what does that have to do with anything?" Spot crossed his arms over his chest. "Rules is rules. I ain't making any exceptions. End of story."

Race made a disgusted sound and pulled out a cigarette. He moved deeper into the space, right up to where the cobbled together walls joined, and struck a match. He sucked deeply on the end and then blew out a mouthful of smoke. Spot watched him warily, not at all sure that he had carried his point. Race tugged his cap off of his head and ran his free hand through his hair as he made his way back to Spot's side.

Spot plucked the cigarette from Race's fingers before he had come to a complete stop and drew in the harsh smoke. He kept it in a half beat longer than usual, trying to work out a delicate way to say what was on his mind. He let it out slowly, knowing full well that his next words would more than likely sour things again. "Why you even concerning yourself with this?"

"Mac's my friend," Race said like that made all the difference in the world.

Spot didn't know how to respond to that, so he reached out and wrapped his hand in the front of Race's shirt instead. He tugged Race to him, kissing him deeply. Spot released his hold on the fabric and pushed Race away as he flicked ashes off of the end of the cigarette.

Race rubbed his lips with the side of his hand and said, "You haven't changed the subject."

"I wasn't trying to." Spot lied, taking another pull on the cigarette before passing it back to Race.

"Sure you weren't." Race put the cigarette in his mouth and lifted his eyebrows.

Spot was half tempted to kiss Race again but decided against it after taking in the lines around the other boy's mouth. He glanced down at the warped boards and wondered what he was going to say if Race pressed him on the subject. The fact was, Mac _was _a good kid. He was one of Spot's closest friends in the lodging house and Spot hadn't forgotten that Mac was the first boy to come over to his side back when Lefty was making his life hell.

Still, rules were rules and Spot couldn't afford to let Mac slide. Nothing was more likely to cause dissention in the ranks than the bitter whispers of favoritism. Spot heard Race move and looked up. Race had come to stand beside him, leaning back on the rails, his arm causally brushing against Spot's.

Race cleared his throat, a pensive look on his face. "Where's Mac supposed to go?"

Spot frowned. He had no damn idea. "Not my affair."

"He's your friend."

"Race," Spot said sharply, letting some of the frustration he was feeling about the situation leek into his words.

Race ignored the warning. "You're just going to kick him out and to hell with the consequences."

"Don't take that tone with me."

"Don't take that tone with me," Race mimicked.

Spot glared at him, shifting so that they were no longer touching. Race moved closer, pressing his arm into Spot's side. Spot shifted away again. Race had a bad habit of getting all touchy-feely in the midst of a dispute and Spot didn't like it. Something that he had mentioned to Race before, not it had down him a lick of good. Race didn't understand that Spot liked to keep his emotions clean, not muddled up with one another. If he was mad at Race, he didn't want to be touching him.

He took a deep breath and said calmly, "This ain't about me, Race. You know I like Mac. He's always been there when I need him. And I don't want to see him on the street any more than you do. I've already done more for him than I normally would. I've talked to him before about coming up short. I've given him pointers on how he can sell more papes."

"Selling papes ain't the problem," Race cut in.

"I know it ain't." Spot took the cigarette from Race. "Hell, I wish it were. At least then I could have some chance of seeing a change for the better. But the facts of the matter are that Mac likes to bet more than he can afford to lose and it's real hard to scrape up sympathy for him when everyone knows that he could pay his bills if he kept away from the cards."

"He's had a run of bad luck."

"It's more than bad luck." Spot turned so that he was facing the water. He rested his arms on the railing and flicked the butt of cigarette out over the side of the dock. "Now, it's none of my concern if one of my boys likes to play deep as long as he can handle it. Mac can't. And talking to him ain't done a lick of good. I told him the last time he came looking for a loan that the next time he was short I was gonna have to take action."

Race let out a sigh. "Kicking him out of the house ain't gonna help him any."

"It will show him what happens when you can't pay your bills."

"That's cold and you know it."

Spot snorted. "Cold? It ain't cold. It's reality. You think it's gonna be any different when he's got an old lady and a couple of brats to feed? Ain't no one gonna be covering his debts for him then. Better he learn his lesson now. At least this way the only one getting hurt by his stupidity is himself."

Race pursed his lips and Spot knew that he still didn't like it. Well, that was fine. Spot didn't like it either. But that wouldn't change his decision. And neither would Race. Still, he didn't like the disapproving look on Race's face. "It ain't like it's forever," he offered. "Mac can come back in a month or so, if he changes his ways, that is. And if he manages to pay what he owes when he owes it, ain't no one gonna give him a moment's unease over the past."

Race didn't reply. Spot pressed his lips together to keep from trying again to make Race see his side of it. He had made his choice and he was going to stick by it. Race should know better than to get involved in a Brooklyn matter anyway. Besides, didn't Race say that in Manhattan it was every boy for himself? Spot had covered Mac four times last month. Four. It wasn't as he was kicking Mac out on his first offense.

Spot watched as a boat made its way down the river and tried to think of something to say. He looked out Race out of the corner of his eye and saw Race idly picking at a rotten chunk of wood. He turned to face him and said, "You doing all right for yourself?" because he couldn't figure out anything better.

Race nodded and took a deep breath. "Selling with Jack beats selling alone."

"Is that so?" Spot scowled. He had been doing his best to forget that Race was selling with Jack.

Race gave him a startled look. "What's with you?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, sure, its nothing that's got you looking like you swallowed a toad."

Spot smoothed out his face and tried for a civil tone. "You and Jacky-boy getting alone fine as can be then?"

"Don't start, Spot."

"Don't start what?"

"With your Jacky-boy crap. You ain't got no call to be jealous."

"I ain't jealous," Spot ground out.

"Then what's got your back up if it ain't the thought of me and Jack selling together?"

"You can sell with whoever you damn well want. It ain't no skin off of my nose," Spot lied.

Race snorted. "I ain't interested in Jack."

"Did I ask if you were?"

"You don't have to."

Spot flipped around so that his back was resting on the railing and gave Race a cool stare. "All I did was ask you a question."

"Fine. Whatever you say, Spot." Race pushed off of the railing and glared at him.

Spot knew he should leave well enough alone, but he couldn't help saying, "Well, ain't you gonna answer it?"

Race's eyes went wide as he contorted his face in an expression of stunned disbelief. "I can't believe you. I just can't believe you."

"What?"

"Don't you 'what' me! You know damned well what."

"Calm down," Spot ordered and almost winced at the look that came over Race's face.

"'Calm down' he says," Race ranted. "Calm down. Like he ain't the one getting all out of sorts over a couple of friends selling together."

"I ain't out of sorts over nothing."

"Oh really?" Race scoffed. "Well then it won't bother you in the least to know that yes, Jack and I are getting along wonderfully. We spend most of our free time together and he's trying to talk me into staying on with him instead of heading back out to Sheepshead come the spring."

"What!" Spot stepped closer to Race and jabbed him in the chest. "Ain't gonna happen."

Race laughed. "And why not? I do just fine with Jack. Why should I walk all the way out to Sheepshead?"

Spot spluttered. He couldn't come up with a reason and he sure as hell didn't want to say that. Frustrated, he spun and slammed his fist into the side of the piling. Pain radiated up his arm as his knuckles split and Spot welcomed it. He reared back to do it again but was stopped by Race moving between him and his target.

"Have you lost your mind?" Race barked.

Spot licked his lips. The thought of Race and Jack selling together full time was just too much for him to take, but there was no way he could tell Race that.

Race shook his head in disgust. 'That's it. I've had enough fun for one day." He all but marched to where his coat was laying, bent down and snatched it up and then marched right back to the railing and swung a leg over it. He began to swing his other one over too, but Spot stopped Race by slipping his cane through the back of Race's suspenders.

"You ain't leaving yet," he said flatly.

Race twisted and glared at him. "Get your damn cane off my back, Conlon."

"Get your leg back over the side," Spot countered.

"I'm leaving."

"No, you ain't."

"You ain't got no authority over me."

Spot yanked on the cane, pulling Race back over the ledge. Race landed hard on his butt, his coat dropping from his hands. He gave Spot a filthy look as he scrambled to his feet. He was breathing was ragged and his eyes glittered with suppressed rage.

"You think you can just do whatever the hell you want, but you can't." Race took a step in Spot's direction, his fists coming up. "You ain't the boss of me, Conlon. Not now, not ever."

"I ain't never said that I was."

For a moment Spot thought Race was going to slug him and he braced himself for the blow. But Race ran a hand over his face instead and shook his head with a defeated hunch to his shoulders.

"This is getting old," he muttered.

Spot swallowed past a lump in his throat. "What's getting old?" he demanded, although he was pretty sure he knew already what Race's answer was going to be.

"This." Race flung out an arm. "You, me. The whole goddamned situation."

"Ain't that a pretty little speech," Spot jeered.

Race shook his head again. "It ain't fun no more."

Spot ignored the panic flaring in his chest and strode over to Race. He cupped the back of Race's head and pressed his lips against Race's. He angled his head and licked at Race's mouth until the other boy opened for him. Spot slid his tongue inside eagerly and gasped as Race sucked on the end of it. He pulled away, panting. "That ain't fun enough for you?"

Race closed the distance between them, nipping at the underside of Spot's neck. Spot closed his eyes as Race licked his ear. "It's nice all right," Race said stepping back abruptly. "But it ain't worth the stress."

Spot wrapped his arms around Race's waist and swiveled his hips. "I know a good way to relieve stress," he murmured.

Race pulled away. "You're bleeding all over my good shirt," he noted curtly.

Spot glanced down at his hand and cursed. He fumbled at his breast pocket for his handkerchief. Spot clumsily wrapped it around his knuckles and swore when it fell off as he attempted to tie it. Race stepped towards him and took the faded scrap of cloth from his hand.

"Punching that help any?" he asked dryly, his eyes on Spot's knuckles.

"A little."

"Want to tell me why you did it?" Race deftly finished tying the handkerchief in place.

"Not particularly."

Race flashed him a grin. "Why am I not surprised?"

Spot grinned back. "Because you know me."

Race gave Spot's hand a quick squeeze. "Remember doing the same for me?"

"Where do you think I got the idea?" He darted in to kiss Race gently on the lips. It was the closest he could come to saying thank you.

"You're welcome." Race let Spot's hand drop. A sharp breeze came off across the water and Race bent down and picked up his coat, slipped into it and tugged it tight against his body.

Spot glanced up at the sky and frowned at the dark tinge to the horizon. There was a storm coming in. Which would make selling hell. He thought what was waiting for him back home and muttered a curse. He didn't like the thought of Mac forced out onto the streets right before a storm. Where would the kid hunker down?

Spot wished that Mac had listened to him. How hard was it to lay off the gaming? Even Race, who was the world's biggest fool when it came to horses, knew when to quit. Spot reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his box of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, sucking on the end.

"What is it now?" Race asked, eyeing him with a hesitant expression.

"Looks like it's going to rain later. Might even snow, if it gets cold enough."

"So?"

"Mac," Spot replied tersely.

Race scratched the back of his head. "Mac," he repeated dully.

Suddenly an idea popped into Spot's head. It would be tricky pulling it off so no one was the wiser, but if he did then both his problem with Mac and Race would be solved. He slapped a thoughtful look on his face and said slowly, "You don't think that maybe…" Spot trailed off, hoping that Race caught his meaning.

Race's eyes lit up. "You know, that just might work."

"If anyone asks," Spot began.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You ain't got nothing to do with it," Race cut him off.

"Exactly."

Race gave him an amused look and then plucked the cigarette from Spot's fingers. Spot watched as the other boy stuck it in his mouth and then closed his eyes and let out a trio of lazy smoke rings. Spot licked his lips and shifted so that his leg was pressed against Race's as they both gazed out over the ocean.

*~*~*

Race pulled his coat tighter against his body and stifled a yawn. He moved closer to Spot, hoping to steal some of the other boy's heat. There were a few hours yet before sundown, but Race was bone weary. Jack's selling strategy consisted of covering as much ground as possible and that really took it out of Race.

He was use to standing more or less in one spot and having customers come up to him instead of the other way around. Which most likely explained the trouble he always had selling outside of Sheepshead. It was also the reason that he would never consider selling somewhere else full time.

Race glanced at Spot and smirked. Spot could say anything he wanted, but he was undeniably jealous of Jack. His reaction to the hint that Race's arrangement with Jack might become permanent proved that even if nothing else did. Race was amused by the irony of it and chuckled.

Instantly, Spot's eyes were on him. "What's funny?"

Race lifted a shoulder and said nothing. Spot's eyes narrowed and Race saw the spot of blood on his handkerchief grow as he tightened his grip on the piling's ledge. He let out a sigh, recognizing the signs of Spot's temper.

"It's a good thing you're doing by Mac," Race said, hoping to prevent the coming explosion. He still thought that there was no call for Spot to be kicking Mac out but the fact that Spot was clearly worried about his friend did a lot to ease Race's conscience.

Spot snorted. "What happens to Mac after he leaves is between him and God."

Race gave him an disbelieving look. "Which is why you just asked me to see that he gets taken care of?"

"Did I ask you that?" Spot's eyes narrowed. "Because I don't remember saying anything of the sort."

Race rolled his eyes. He knew how hard it was for Spot to admit that he needed assistance in anything, but this was going far even for him. It bothered Race sometimes, the way Spot held himself apart from everyone around him. But Spot was Spot and there was more than enough good to offset the bad. Well, at least there use to be. Sometimes it didn't seem like that so much anymore. But then, look at what he was doing for Mac, making sure he had a place to hang his hat instead of leaving him to fend for himself. Then again, if Spot weren't kicking him out, then Mac wouldn't need to find a place to stay. Race sighed. Trying to figure Spot's motivation out was like trying to make sense out of a storm.

He took a breath and soldiered on, knowing full well that Spot wouldn't thank him for his efforts. "I'll make sure to let you know how he settles in."

"The hell you will," Spot snapped.

"It's no bother."

"I don't care if it is or not. You are not telling me a damned thing about what happens to Mac. Do you understand that?"

"Why not?" Race knew perfectly well why not, but he wanted to hear Spot admit it.

Spot gave him a look that said that Race was the stupidest person in the world. "Why do you think, Racetrack?"

Race rolled his eyes. "No need to get snippy." He ground out his cigarette and let it drop.

"I ain't getting snippy."

Race closed his eyes and told himself to let it go, even though he knew damn well he wouldn't. It was happening again and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was going to say something and Spot was going to react badly. Then Spot would either swing at him or shout at him. Either way, it would end the same: with both of them half naked on the docks. And while the ending might be enjoyable, Race wasn't at all in the mood for the fight that would precede it.

He wanted to go home. It was cold and he was tired. But if he tried to leave now, Spot would throw a fit. Hell, if he stayed Spot would throw a fit. _Damned if I do, damned if I don't,_ Race thought bitterly.

He spit over the side of the railing and then shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. "It's getting late," he began. Spot, predictably, cut him off.

"You ain't leaving yet, Racetrack."

"If I stay we'll only have a fight."

Spot blinked at him, his mouth hanging open. Then he shook his head and snapped it shut. "Says you."

"Come on," Race wheedled. "Just let me go. Things ain't been so bad today."

"'Ain't been so bad'?" Spot gave him an exasperated look. "You only railed at me for doing what a good leader ought."

Race rolled his eyes. "I thought you didn't want to talk about Mac any more."

"I don't."

"Good, then drop it and let's just say goodnight."

"What has you running off so soon? It won't be dark for a couple more hours. I'm sure we can think of something to do that won't involve any talking at all." Spot ran his thumb over his lower lip suggestively.

Race swallowed. He could imagine a number of things they could do together too. It was too bad that Spot was acting like a powder keg about to go off. He shook his head regretfully and did his best to come up with a convincing lie.

"I promised Dutchy I'd go with him over to Medda's tonight."

"Dutchy?"

"Yeah."

Spot gave him a calculated look. "You've been going out a lot with Dutchy lately."

Race shrugged. "He's always up for a good time." Actually, Race wasn't going out with Dutchy any more than he had before. He just had taken to saying that he had plans with Dutchy instead of Jack when Spot asked. It just made things easier.

"Maybe I'll come along," Spot said causally.

Race frowned. He didn't want Spot to come along. And he certainly didn't want to tell Spot that. "If you want," he said grudgingly.

Spot sucked on his teeth. "And don't you sound thrilled by the prospect."

"You and Dutchy ain't exactly friends," Race hedged.

"We ain't enemies either."

"Don't you have business you got to take care of in Brooklyn?"

Spot scowled. "Why don't you want me to come?"

_Because you're in a foul mood and spoiling for a fight_. "Who says I don't want you to come?"

Spot laughed. "I ain't stupid, Racetrack."

"Stop calling me that."

"Why? It's your name ain't it?"

"Sure it is." _But you only call me it when you're about to blow your lid_.

"Then what's the problem?"

Race sighed. "I don't want to fight. Can't we see each other just once without it ending in us screaming?"

"You ain't gonna start giving me a ration about how this ain't fun no more, are you Racetrack?" Spot's face was red and his hands were clenched at his sides.

"If you call me that one more time," Race warned.

"You'll what?"

Race rubbed his eyebrow and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, all right Spot?"

Spot gave him a cold look. "I think I'll be busy then."

"Fine." Race strode to the ledge of the railing and swung both of his legs over. He jumped off before Spot could stop him and began to make his way to the end of the dock. Fine. If Spot wanted that play that game, then so would he. Race hunched his shoulders against the wind and mutter darkly to himself about not coming next time Spot called.


	15. Don't Let Little Things Like Loyalty

Don't Let Little Things Like Loyalty Stop You

_April 30, 1899_

Spot walked down the street with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a small smile on his lips. It was looking to be a good day, one of the best he'd had in a long ways. The daily special at Maloney's had been shepherd's pie, he'd sold out in a little under two hours, and, best yet, Race had sent a message to meet him at the docks. He touched the brim of his cap respectfully as he passed a copper and started to whistle as he rounded the bend and the docks came into sight.

The wind that ruffled the hair at the nape of his neck was still little too cool to be enjoyable, but the sun was shinning and there wasn't a cloud in sight. Spot could see Race in the distance, pacing back and forth. Something about the way Race's shoulders were hunched took the edge off of Spot's good mood and he had an unreasonable urge to turn on his heel and head back home.

He kept walking, because Spot didn't back down from anything, but every step he took made it clear that this day was about to go right down the crapper. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Race, Lord knew he did, but Spot wasn't in the right mindset to deal with him if he had his nose out of joint, which it had been more often than not of late. Race was always harping on about some thing or the other, bleating about friendship and loyalty and tossing out comments about Mac that were as subtle as a swift right hook.

Mac. It always came back to him. Race clung to his anger over that like a cur did a meaty bone. And for no good reason. It wasn't as if Mac was wasting away in a back alley somewhere. He was fat and happy in Manhattan, if Race was to be believed. Who cared if he missed Brooklyn? Life was full of hard knocks and, honestly, moving across town wasn't something worth crying about. Hadn't Race done it himself? So things hadn't turned out the way Mac thought they would. Tough. Life wasn't all peaches and cream and Race was too damn old to be acting like it was. Spot shook his head in disgust, anger putting a little more speed into his step.

He paused at the end of the dock, waiting for Race to notice him. It didn't take long Sure enough, Race's face twisted up in a scowl as soon as he saw Spot standing there. Once again the urge to just leave filled him. Spot had hoped, fool that he was, that this time would be different. He had thought that the fact that Race was seeking him out pointed to things being on the up and up again. Stupid of him. Of course Race still had his dander up and, of course, Spot was going to hear all about it. At full volume. And maybe with a punch or two to drive the point home. Exactly opposite of the way he had wanted to spend this evening.

Still, something inside of him balked at the thought of leaving without a fight, though, and so he walked forward to meet his fate. Even if they managed to skirt the subject of Mac, there was always something else that he had done wrong, some other reason for Race to get all worked up and ball him out.

"You wanted to see me?" Spot asked a bit more abruptly than he meant to as he closed the distance between them.

Race nodded curtly. "Yeah."

Spot waited for him to continue, but Race just stood there with his jaw looking tight enough to break teeth. "Anything in particular you wanted?" he tried to make his voice jovial and failed.

Race scratched the side of his face. "Yeah."

Again, Spot waited for him to elaborate. Again, Race didn't. "You want to tell me what that is?" Spot asked when the tense silence finally got to him.

"Mac."

Spot winced. Christ, this was going exactly the way he had thought: badly. "What about him?"

"You know what."

"Race, I've told you before, what's going on between Mac and me ain't none of your business."

"And I've told you before that it is."

"Leave this alone," Spot warned.

Race glared at him and shook his head. "You said that he could come back after a month if he kept his nose clean. It's been three months, going on four, and he hasn't so much as touched a deck of cards. So why ain't he back where he belongs?"

Spot attempted to put his reasoning into a form that he thought Race would understand and then gave it up as hopeless. Race just didn't think like him. He didn't take the things that mattered into account. Instead, Race ranted about loyalty and honor, stupid stuff that could get a fella killed in the real world.

So he tried again to get Race to give it up. "Don't." Spot put all the emotions he couldn't explain into the word, hoping it would be enough. Like normal, Race ignored him.

"He was your friend, Spot," Race bit out.

Spot snorted. "'Was' being the key word. He's not now."

"Yeah, I noticed. What I want to know is why."

"It's none of your business," Spot repeated firmly, crossing his arms. "So don't make it."

"The hell it isn't!" Race exploded. He crossed the space between them so swiftly that Spot backed up a step involuntarily. Race jabbed his finger into Spot chest and hissed, "Mac's been good to you. Better than you deserve. And what's it got him?"

"I thought you said he was fitting in fine in Manhattan," Spot challenged, slapping away Race's hand. "He was getting in close with a couple of the boys, you said, and had no problems selling his papes."

"He is," Race admitted grudgingly.

"Then where's the problem?"

Race raised his eyebrows. "You gave him your word," he ground out.

"I never promised Mac a damn thing." Which was true. Spot had said that he would consider letting Mac come back to Brooklyn if he could keep his gambling under control. And he had. So Spot had considered the matter and decided that it was best to leave things like they were. Mac hadn't made a fuss over it and if he was content to let things lie then why wouldn't Race?

"That's not the way I remember it."

"I don't see why you are even involved. This is between Mac and me. I've told you that a hundred times. He's not crying over the situation, so why the hell are you?"

Race gave him a disgusted look and shook his head. "Mac's my friend. He's a good kid and deserves better than what you're giving him." He walked over to the edge of the dock and stared out across the water. "He's not happy," Race said after a long pause.

Spot put a hand to his head and wished that things hadn't played out the way they had. Mac was a good kid. And he did deserve better. But that didn't change things. Spot swallowed back guilt and reminded himself of the reasons he had decided to keep Mac out of Brooklyn.

It wasn't personal. Hell, everyone knew how much he liked Mac. That, in fact, was the main reason that Spot had been forced to kick him out in the first place. Nothing will topple a leader faster than favoritism. So Spot had come down hard on Mac, turned him out into a storm and never so much as said sorry and that had sent ripples throughout Brooklyn.

His reputation changed and grown. With that single act, Spot had garnered a whole new level of respect. No one challenged him now. No one stepped a toe out of line. Because if Spot was that tough on one of his close friends, then he was bound to be even tougher on the boys he didn't give a fig about.

None of his boys knew that he had arranged for Mac to be taken in by the Manhattan lodging house. He would swear on a stack of bibles that only Race was aware of his role in Mac's resettlement. Spot had worked damned hard to make sure of that. And, as far as he was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay. The last thing Spot needed was for Mac to come back and start flapping his gums about Race and Manhattan.

Now, Spot was sure he could keep Mac in line and that wouldn't by itself be reason enough to leave him stranded him Manhattan, but there was more. Loads more. Spot had learned a number of things about Mac in his absence. Things that made him loath to bring the boy back. Nothing terrible, nothing that kept him from wanting to stay friends with Mac, but nothing he wanted in his territory.

Aside from his obvious troubles with keeping a hold on his money, Mac had played more dangerous games. Spot had heard from more than one source that Mac had been behind countless tiffs and scrambles. He liked to poke at the boys, needling them on their sore points. He got one group of boys laughing at the other, then played both sides so that when the fighting broke out he came up smelling like roses.

At first Spot had just put that all up to sour grapes. But, as time passed, he himself had noticed a drop in the amount of infighting that went on in the lodging house and Spot had had to admit the thing as fact. Once his eyes had been opened to Mac's behavior, Spot had to put his personal feelings aside. He couldn't let Mac come waltzing back in here and start stirring things up again.

Still, Spot felt that he owed Mac. Mac had been the first boy to come over to his side. And Mac had been as loyal as anyone to Spot since then. Even the boys most happy to see the back of him had to admit that Mac had never said a word against Spot. So he had asked around, trying to see if Mac had learned from his mistakes.

He had listened carefully to his sources, comparing what each said against what the others had reported until Spot was sure he knew the truth of the matter. It was plain as day that Mac was up to his old tricks in Manhattan. And that had been the nail in his coffin. Mac was not coming back to Brooklyn on Spot's watch. Not even Race could change that fact.

Spot eyed Race warily, wishing that they didn't have to do this. Race was clearly waiting for an answer, but Spot didn't have one to give him. Spot shoved his hands into his pockets and pressed his lips into a thin line, determined not to say anything else on the subject.

"Is that it?" Race demanded. "Is that all the answer you're going to give?"

Spot knew that nothing he had to say was going to help matters, it hadn't the last twenty times or so that they had had this conversation, but he couldn't help himself. "Mac's a troublemaker, Race. I've told you so before, if you'd bothered to listen. Things have been nice since he's been gone and I don't want him back."

Race rolled his eyes. "And I've told you that's nothing but hot air. Mac was good with the cards as often as he was bad with them and that always makes for trouble, but he's a decent kid. It ain't his fault if certain persons are taking their bad luck out on him by mucking up his reputation when he ain't there to defend it."

_That wasn't it at all_, Spot thought through gritted teeth. Race was just too damn stubborn to listen to the truth. Spot moved towards the edge of the dock, one hand going to the back of his head as he tried to think of a way to change where this conversation was headed. He turned slowly towards Race, contemplating his options.

Race ended that by stomped over to him and sticking his finger in Spot's face. "You listen to me and you listen good," he hissed. "Mac's as swell a fella as they come. You know as well as me that he's true blue and is always willing to go the extra mile to help out a friend. And Mac ain't happy. He sells his papes all right and he's gets on good with Pie Eater and Boots, but he ain't happy. He mopes around the lodging house. He's always catching me at odd moments and reminiscing about Brooklyn and the way things use to be. He wants to go home." Race paused and took a deep breath. "And you can do something about that."

Spot turned so that he was facing out over the water towards Manhattan and watched as a gull drifted by on the wind.

"Christ, Spot, you're a cold-hearted bastard," Race stated matter-of-factly. His tone caused Spot to glance over his shoulder. He watched as Race yanked his cap from his head and dashed a hand through his hair. He shook his head and then said quietly, "I never would have believed it of you."

Something about his slumped shoulders and defeated expression tugged at Spot and he opened his mouth despite knowing it was a mistake. "Wouldn't have believed what?" he snapped, "That I put my boys ahead of myself? That I don't let things like friends and loyalty get in the way? How does Brooklyn benefit if I let the boys I like skate?" he laughed bitterly. "You don't know nothing."

"Oh, so it's for the good of Brooklyn that you are turning your back on your friend?" Race jeered. "Well, that makes all the difference."

Spot gave him a long, hard look and then shook his head. "I don't know why I even bother trying to explain things to you," he muttered.

Race laughed. "Explain things? That's a good one. I haven't heard anything out of you that wasn't bravado for what seems like years." He peered at Spot like he was a cockroach and then let out a sigh. "What happened to you?" he asked sadly.

Spot thought of a number of answers to that, but decided that saying nothing was by far his best option. So he just slipped his hands back into his pockets and turned once more to face the view.

*~*~*

Race eyed the back of Spot head with disgust. He knew coming out here was a mistake, he knew it would only serve to put him in a foul mood, but he'd be damned if he sat back and said nothing while Spot did a friend wrong. So he'd sent Spot a message telling him to meet out on the docks and hoped for the best.

He might as well as wished for the moon.

Race ran a finger along his jaw, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn't escalate things. He watched as Spot stooped, picked up a chunk of rotting wood and tossed it into the bay and then shuffled on over to Spot and nudged him with his elbow.

"You got cause?" he asked, not bothering to conceal his doubt.

Spot nodded, purposely not looking at him. With a resigned sigh, Race slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out two cigarettes. He offered one to Spot, who tucked it into the side of his mouth and then held out his hand for a match. Race lit his own cigarette and passed the box over. Spot did the same and they smoked for a while in companionable silence.

"I know you don't like it," Spot announced when his cigarette was hardly more than a stub. "Mac's done a lot for me. I'll admit that freely enough and some would say that means I owe him." He paused, clearly mulling over his thoughts. "It's hard for you to see my side in this and, try as I might, I can't seem to put the why of the thing in a way you can understand." Spot gave him a side long look and Race nodded encouragingly.

Spot shifted so that he was facing Race and gave another one of his steely-eyed looks. Something in his stance told Race that whatever was coming wasn't going to be good, no matter how hard Spot was trying to make it that way. He sucked on his teeth. "Just spit it out."

He regretted his words almost before they were out of his mouth. The change that came over Spot was instantaneous. His chin jerked up, his eyes narrowed and that hard edge he always had sharpened till Race was sure it ought to cut him where he stood.

"Fine," Spot snarled. "Mac stays put. He's bad news and he ain't ever coming back to Brooklyn."

"Bad news according to who?" Race challenged.

Spot lifted his brows. "I don't see why that matters. You either trust my judgment or you don't."

Anger flared through Race. He hated that Spot kept trying to make this about Race's failings as opposed to his own. His lips curled. "You ain't got a scrap of decency left in you," he blustered, feeling slightly ridiculous for saying something so blatantly untrue. Sure, Spot was a right bastard from time to time, but he clearly cared about his boys and always put his responsibilities first.

Spot sneered at him. "Not a jot. Christ, Race, when did you become such a do-gooder? I ain't ruining a charity here. I ain't doing the good Lord's work. I'm the leader of a goddamn lodging house."

Race snorted. There Spot went again, making this about Race instead of him. "Yeah, lodging house," Race crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at Spot. "The way you are acting, a fella would think you were the King of England. Your word is not law."

"What the hell do you think being leader means?" Spot spat. "Of course my word is law. I say I don't want Mac in my territory, and guess what? Mac stays the fuck out of Brooklyn. That's how it works."

Race gave a bitter laugh. "That's how it works, huh?" he snarled. "Nothing else matters in the slightest."

"Exactly." Spot lifted his chin, a mulish expression on his face. "And I don't see where you come into the matter at all. Never have. You think that because I'm fooling around with you your opinion matters?" he shook his head. "You're dumber than a bag of bricks, you are."

Pain sliced through Race at those words and he felt his mouth drop open. He blinked, trying to make sense of want Spot had just said. It was a fact that things had been rocky between them for a ways now, but Race had never guessed that Spot felt like that about him. Race fought against his confused emotions, battling to remain composed. When he thought he could talk without making a fool of himself, he said, "You're right, I am."

Spot blinked. "What?"

"You're right.' Race lifted a shoulder. "I thought I mattered. I thought this," he waved a hand between them, "mattered."

"Race," Spot began but Race ran right over him.

"I'm as dumb as horseshit. Thank you, Spot, for putting me straight. I won't make that mistake again." Race pushed past him, making for the end of the dock.

"Oh for the love of--" Spot sprinted after him, catching hold of Race's shoulder. "Would you stop? This ain't about us, as you damned well know."

Race didn't bother to turn around. Something was caught in his throat and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. It was more than time to end this conversation. He shrugged off Spot's hand. "It's always been about us. And if you didn't know that, well then you are even stupider than I am."


	16. Brooklyn’s Got No Hold On Me

Brooklyn's Got No Hold On Me

_June 2, 1899_

Spot paused at the end of the street. He stared at the Manhattan lodging house, reading the words hanging across the top of the second bank of windows over and over like he had never seen them before. He licked his lips, telling himself that it was foolhardy to get so worked up over such a little thing.

As he watched, two boys exited the building. One aimed a punch at the other, who dodged it and laughed. Spot swallowed again and then told himself to buck up and be a man. He rubbed his sweaty palms against the rough grey fabric of his britches and nodded to himself.

Straightening his shoulders, Spot marched down the street with a smirk on his face. This wasn't how it was suppose to play out, but if he was going to have to eat humble pie for Race he'd be damned if he looked uncomfortable while doing it.

_I can't believe I'm doing this, _Spot thought angrily as he climbed the steps. So they had had a fight. So what? It was nothing knew. Sure, Spot had said some things that maybe he shouldn't have, but then so had Race. It had been a stupid argument, nothing for Race to get all worked up over. But clearly, he had.

Spot swallowed nervously as he knocked on the door. He knew damn well why Race had taken offense, but this was going too far. A few harsh words was nothing for Race to get his nose out of joint over. This whole thing with Mac, well it was practically water under the bridge now, seeing as how Mac had up and left for some godforsaken place out west. So why was Race still not coming to call? And why had he stopped selling out at Sheepshead?

It worried Spot, this change in Race's behavior. It worried him more then he cared to admit.

Race being Race, Spot had expected to be avoided for a bit. When it happened, he had taken it in stride. Spot gave Race a week to cool down, then headed out to Sheepshead, bound and determined to get things back on a familiar footing. But Race wasn't there.

And Race kept on not being there.

It had taken a week for Spot to realize that Race wasn't coming back. When he had, Spot stopped making the trek out to the races and started hanging around the lodging house in case Race decided to visit him there. Another two weeks went by before Spot had to accept the fact that no, Race wasn't going to make it easy and drop by.

Spot had gotten angry then. He knew that Race was holding out, waiting for Spot to come to him. And Spot didn't like that. Race was the one who had started the fight so he could damn well be the one to end it. Spot had indulged himself in some first rate sulking, barking at the boys and giving everyone hell, telling himself that he could wait Race out.

But as the second month dragged by and even his boys had begun to comment on how Race wasn't around, Spot began to worry.

He made inquires and what he heard worried him all the more. Seems Race had found himself a new spot out in Little Italy and was having a run of good luck, managing to do right well for himself. Which meant that there was no reason for Race to make nice with Spot. Spot had been counting on the lure of Sheepshead to bring Race back to him but if the rumors were true that wasn't very likely.

By now Spot was damned tired of waiting. He would go and apologize. He would say whatever damn thing it was that Race needed to hear and then life could get back to being good. Race would come around and be his loud-mouthed, aggravating self, and Spot would grit his teeth and keep his comments to himself and they would work through this rough patch and make it back to the good times.

Spot missed Race. There was no one else to talk to. No one to laugh with. No one to sit side by side with and watch the waves roll in. Spot missed the way they bantered with each other. He missed the witty comments Race made and the way Race always seemed to know how to pull him out of a funk. He just plain missed Race.

And so here he was, standing on the landing with his heart beating so fast he thought it would burst and his hands clenched at his sides. Because if Race was mad enough to let two months go by without a word then things might not be as easy as all that to fix.

The door swung open and Spot jumped. He inwardly cursed at the visible proof of his nerves, but plastered a smile on his face and said, "Hey you, Jacky-boy," pleasantly enough.

Jack, Spot noticed, did not return the smile. "Spot."

"Race around?" Spot asked, ignoring Jack's frown.

Jack nodded. "Don't think he's expecting you."

Spot shrugged. "I couldn't find my engraved announcements."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he asked with a hint of a grin.

"You going to let me in or what?"

Jack glanced down and then shrugged. "Not like anyone told me not to," he muttered.

"Where is he?" Spot asked, moving inside. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he nodded at Kloppman, who was sitting on a stool behind the front desk.

"On the roof."

"Don't feel as though you have to show me, I know the way," Spot quipped, walking briskly forward. Might as well get this over with as fast as possible and without any unwanted persons about to watch it happen.

* * *

Race heard the door open and turned towards it eagerly. It was earlier then he had expected, but that wasn't anything he would complain about. His smile turned to a frown when he saw who stepped through.

"What are you doing here?" he asked without thinking. After the argument he had been determined to give Spot a taste of his own medicine. He wasn't going to be the one who backed down this time, he had done that too many times before and Spot was taking him for granted. Race wasn't going to be the one who came crawling back for more. For once, he was going to stand his ground. So Race decided to sell in Manhattan for a while, just to give Spot something to think about. He never dreamt that Spot could come looking for him. Had kind of counted on it, when push came to shove. But here he was now.

"Visiting you," Spot replied in a tight voice, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Race let out a breath. "Why?"

Spot lifted one shoulder and started to cross the roof. "Thought it was time that we cleared some things up."

"You thought wrong." Race's eyes narrowed as Spot licked his lips. "Look, Spot," he began, "I think we both made things perfectly clear the last time we talked."

Spot gave him a baffled look. "I'm sorry?"

"Is that a question?" Race snorted and shook his head. Figured that Spot wouldn't even to be able to spit out the words properly.

Spot's face flushed. "I said, I'm sorry," he muttered. "I was a right bastard. You have every right to question my motives and I won't bite your head off the next time you call me on something."

Race closed his eyes, not wanting to deal with this. _There's a reason I never came back to Brooklyn, _he thought with a sigh. He opened them again and sighed. "Might as well leave, Spot."

"Didn't you hear me?" Spot demanded, voice rising. "I said I was sorry."

Race cupped his hand around the back of his neck, feeling awkward. "I heard you all right," he admitted grudgingly.

"And you still want me to go?"

Race glanced at the door and then back at Spot. "Yeah."

"Why?" Spot asked, clearly confused. "Sure, it was a nasty fight, but nothing to get all worked up over." He snatched his cap off his head and twisted it between his hands. "I should have come sooner. It was wrong to let this much time go by, but I'm here now and I said I was sorry, so just accept it and I promise that I won't be such an idiot in the future."

Race tugged off his cap, too, and shoved his hands through his hair as he tried to think of a polite way to tell Spot that there wasn't going to be a future. He took a deep breath and told himself that no matter what he said, Spot was going to be mad. Spot didn't handle disappointment well and Race was certain that this was going to be a major disappointment.

"It's not just the fight," Race said finally. "Although I'll admit, it riled me up. You said some things I didn't like, but I can see that maybe you had a point and maybe you are right. I was being stupid. I gave it a lot of thought and you know what, maybe we are better off apart."

"That's crap."

"No, Spot, it ain't." Race ran a hand across his face. "What we had, it didn't mean nothing."

"I was upset. You know I was upset. And when I said that I never for one minute thought you would take me seriously." Spot gave him a pleading look and Race averted his eyes, not wanting to understand the emotion in Spot's eyes.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should think before you speak," he answered curtly

Spot swallowed and the knuckles on the hand gripping his cap went white. "Don't be like this. You know I was just talking. You know that it mattered, that you matter. Christ, Race, I never want to stop being with you."

He reached out with his free hand, making to touch Race and Race jerked back. Spot's eyes widened and his expression went from slightly nervous to full out panic. Race felt a quick stab of guilt and decided that it was best to end this smoothly. After all, a clean cut did much less damage. He took a steadying breath. "That's too bad, because I do."

Spot gave a shaky laugh. "Good one. You had me going there." He gave Race a look full of false cheer and confidence.

"I'm not laughing," he pointed out quietly, trying not to let emotion sneak in and muddle things up. "And I think you know good and well that I wasn't blowing hot air."

Spot frowned. "You can't mean it." He crossed his arms and glared at Race, his jaw tight.

Race closed his eyes briefly, wanting this over with. It would do neither of them any good to draw it out. Especially not when it meant Spot finding out about Race's plans for the evening. With that in mind, he echoed Spot's stance and added strength to his voice when he said, "I'm done with you, Spot."

"Now wait just a minute," Spot began, but Race cut him off.

"No. You wait a minute. This ain't going to work out. You aren't going to be able to spin me some sugared fantasy about you and me and how it's going to be. I know damn well how things stand between us and, you know what, I'm happy with 'em that way. I don't want to forgive you. I don't want to try again. I'm done. It's over. And you need to leave."

"The hell I will," Spot retorted angrily as he slapped his cap back on his head. His chin angled up, and Race knew that Spot was going to fight this to the bitter end.

The angry energy that had been fueling him drained away, leaving Race feeling empty and dejected. It was killing him to have to do this. Race turned his back on Spot, resting his hands on the railing, his shoulders slumping. "Why?"

"Why what?"

Race could hear the confusion in Spot's voice. His hands tightened on the rough wood and he felt like he had the weight on the world on his shoulders. "Why won't you leave? Why won't you take me at my word? Why does everything have to be so damned hard with you?" Race paused to take a breath, screwing up his courage before pushing on. "I've got a new life now, Spot. And I like it. I like it a lot. Brooklyn's got no hold on me."

"Brooklyn," Spot said tightly. "Brooklyn means me, don't it?"

Race nodded, still not facing Spot. "Yeah."

"How can you say that?" Spot demanded. "How can you stand there and tell me that I'm nothing to you? God damn it, Race, you won't even look me in the eye while your doing it!"

Something inside of Race snapped at the angry, accusatory tone. He whirled around fury burning like fire in his veins. If Spot wanted to take that route, then fine. Race had his own deep well of bitterness and frustrations to draw on and he'd be damned if he would back down from this first. He took a step towards Spot and spit out, "Listen and listen good. I'm through with you, Spot Conlon. I'm done playing your games. I'm sick of taking it on the chin because you're on the warpath over something I've got nothing to do with. I've had my fill of defending you and making excuses for you. Because you're not worth it. You're cold as ice, Spot."

Race gave Spot a disgusted look. "You weren't always like that. You used to have a heart. You used to stick up for the little guy. You used to be someone worth knowing, even with all your bluster and pretentions. Now? Hell, I wouldn't hitch my wagon to yours for all the money in the world. You're nasty, calculating, and petty. And so damn hard. It's like it would kill you to bend, like your whole world would come crashing down if you lent a helping hand to some poor bastard down on his luck. I don't know if it's being a leader or just a part of you that I never saw, but you've changed. I put up with a lot because of how things use to be, but I'm done with that now."

Spot looked sick. "I didn't know you felt that way, Race."

"Now you do," Race replied coolly. "So just leave already."

Spot stepped towards him, eyes wide. "I can change," he said desperately. "You're right, I've been a bastard. I'm selfish and have a temper like no other. I say nasty things to you for no other reason then that you are there and I'm in a foul mood. I'm sorry. Honest to God, Race, I'm sorry. I'll do better next time, just give me a chance and you'll see." He took another step and caught hold of Race's balled up hands. "Please," he whispered, his eyes locked with Race's, searching for something Race wasn't going to give.

This had to end. And badly. Otherwise Spot would just keep coming back, trying to weasel his way into Race's good graces. Race let out a sharp hiss and yanked back, breaking Spot's hold. "There ain't gonna be a next time. Get it into you thick head. I don't want a goddamned thing to do with you."

"Don't be like that, Race," Spot pleaded. "I said I was sorry and I meant it."

"What makes you think that matters?" Race asked nastily.

Spot sucked in a breath, but kept on trying. "Just listen," he said in a rush, panic running under his words. "I've made mistakes. I treated you bad. I let the stress of being boss get to me. I took my anger and frustrations out on you. I was wrong. But I can fix this." His face took on a fierce look and his eyes flashed. "I can rein in my temper. I can make this right, I swear I can."

"You're still not listening," Race said frustrated. "There's no changing my mind about this."

Spot's eyes narrowed. "There's something you ain't telling me," he accused.

This was heading right where Race hadn't wanted it to go. He made a frustrated noise. Spot was going to find out now. And all hell would break lose. Race sighed. "There's a lot I'm not telling you, but none of it changes what I've said or the reasons I said it."

"You've found someone else," Spot's voice rose and he balled his hands into fists.

Race said nothing and knew that his silence spoke volumes.

Spot gave him a knowing look. "It's Jack, isn't it?"

"Christ!" Race exploded, his reason leaving him at the jealousy etched on Spot's face. "You always think that Jack is at the root of everything. No matter how many times I say otherwise, you always come back to Jack. When will you get it into your head that I don't want Jack. I've never wanted anyone but you. And damned if that didn't blow up in my face." His heart raced as he glowered at the other boy.

"I would believe that if you didn't worship the ground Jacky-boy walks on," Spot spat nastily.

Race felt as if he had a bucket of ice water tossed on him. There it was, everything he had ever felt in black and white, and all Spot could do was sneer and look down his nose at him. "I don't give a damn what you believe, Spot."

"If it's not your precious Jack, then who is it?" Spot had that familiar gleam in his eyes, the one that said that thought he was right.

Race just shook his head. There was no use saying anything, not with Spot looking like that. "Will you just leave already? I didn't want to see you when you showed up and nothing that's happened since then has changed my mind any."

Spot opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say remained a mystery, because at that moment the roof door opened again and the thing that Race had been dreading since Spot arrived occurred.

* * *

"You got a visitor, Race," Jack called from the doorway.

Spot watched as Race's expression changed from anger to panic and then, oddly enough, to eager expectation. Race spun around and glanced over the edge of the roof. Spot followed him, looking over Race's shoulder. To his surprise, he saw a girl standing at the lodging house door.

"Catalina!" Race called and the girl glanced up, shading her eyes with her hand. She smiled and waved and Spot felt his heart drop as Race waved back, a gooey look on his face.

It wasn't Jack after all.

"I'll be right down," Race shouted down. He turned to Spot and grabbed him by the upper arm. "Leave now," he hissed. "And don't make a production of it."

He let go of Spot's arm and wiped his hand against the front of his shirt as if trying to clean away some sort of stain left by Spot's skin.

_This can't be happening, _Spot thought as he followed Race across the roof and down the stairs. _It's only been a couple of months. He can't have replaced me already._ But he had. Obviously, Race had. Spot felt like his chest was on fire. Each breath was an agony. He felt like he was dying. Race didn't want him around. Race had found someone new. Someone he cared for. In two months this girl, this Catalina, had managed to worm her way into Race's heart.

In all the time they had been seeing each other, hell in all the years before that, Race had never once looked at Spot with a tenth of the feeling Spot had seen when Race had smiled at that girl. Spot stared at his feet, wishing he had never come. Better to have thought Race mad at him. Better to have been filled with worry and half formed fears. Better not to know how little he truly mattered and how easily he had been replaced.

_I'll leave, _Spot thought. _I'll keep my dignity and just leave and never come back. If Race doesn't want me, fine. His loss._

He reached the bottom of the stairs and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Only a few more feet and he would be out of the lodging house. Only a few more feet and he would be free. Spot focused on reaching the door because doing anything else would spell disaster for him.

But he had forgotten what was waiting for them at the door.

"Race," the girl breathed, a smile spread across her lovely face.

"_Cara mia_," Race answered gently, his hand brushing against her cheek with exquisite tenderness. His eyes were soft and filled with such an expressive emotion that Spot couldn't contain his reaction.

He tapped Race on the shoulder, hating how the other boy had forgotten that he was there. When Race turned towards him, Spot slammed his fist into Race's face. Race reeled back and the girl let out a high pitched scream. Spot ignored them and started walking down the street.

"Spot, you bastard," Race called after him.

"Drop it, Racetrack," Spot sneered over his shoulder, knowing full well that Race wouldn't.

Spot took three more steps before Race's fist collided with his back. Spot spun around, ducking under a blow Race had aimed at his face, relishing in the satisfaction of the fight.

_This is how it should end,_ he thought as jabbed Race hard in the side. _This is how it should end. With fists and blood and pain. Not in some girly conversation where I'm begging him to stay._

Spot blinked back tears that had nothing to do with the fight and grinned as Race landed a painful blow to the side of his head. His ears ringing, Spot moved forward, shoving into Race. Race backed up a step and then another and before he realized what Spot was about, Spot had him pinned against the wall of a nearby building. With a satisfied grin, Spot began to rain punches down on the trapped boy, working over Race's ribs, slamming his fists into the boy's sides as hard and as fast as he could.

He heard a faint crunching sound followed by Race's roar of pain and thought, _Good. Hurt. Hurt like I do, damn it._

* * *

Race gave up trying to defend himself and focused on breathing. He heard someone crying and realized with a start that it was Spot. He tried to remember if he had landed any blows that could injure Spot enough to make him cry and bit his lip as he remembered that yes, he had done something that hurt Spot.

Something that injured Spot quite a bit more then Race had ever dreamed possible.

Race took another shallow breath and closed his eyes, embracing the pain. He deserved it. Spot was hurting and it was his fault. Race grunted as a particularly vicious blow caught him. He let his arms fall to his sides and leaned his head back against the wall.

He hadn't meant for this to happen.

But Race hadn't counted on meeting Catalina. He never would have thought he would have fallen so hard and so fast. But he had. And Spot, well Spot hadn't stood a chance. How could he? Spot, for all he was talented with those hands of his and that clever tongue, was prickly and surly and, lately, about as much fun as a hangover. Catalina, on the other hand, was like the rain after a long, hot summer. She smiled easily and often and her eyes always looked at Race with admiration. When he was with her, he never had to watch his words or keep on guard. She was open and honest and every damn thing that Spot wasn't.

Race knew he had handled things badly. He should have had the courage to go to Brooklyn and explain what had happened to Spot. But Race hadn't wanted to deal with the emotional scene that would follow such an explanation. So he had stayed in Manhattan, hoping that Spot would just let things slide.

And this was the result.

Race grunted as Spot got in a good one, his ribs aching. He tried to focus on something else but there was nothing to distract him except the angry words that Spot was muttering words under his breath. Words that Race didn't want to hear. Race winced. He hadn't thought Spot cared. Things between them were so strained. They fought just about every time they were together. Spot wasn't the sort to drop compliments or have meaningful conversations with, but even by Spot standards, things were bad.

_I'm sorry, _Race thought. _ I never meant to hurt you. _ He opened his mouth to say those words, but nothing came and he shut it again, feeling like the world's biggest coward.

Race heard Jack swear and opened his eyes. He blinked back tears as he watched Jack, Blink and Mush run down the street. They latched onto Spot, tearing him away from Race. Race heard a ripping sound and saw with some confusion a tattered bit of fabric daggling from Spot's fist.

"You're a dead man," Spot screamed and Race looked up. Spot's eyes were bloodshot and his face was contorted into a vicious snarl, but he wasn't crying anymore which made something deep inside of Race stop aching. Spot would get through this. Just like Race would. "You hear me, Racetrack? You step one foot into Brooklyn and I'll have your head."

Race blinked and nodded, putting a hand to his ribs. He took a shallow breath and then said, "I hear you, Spot."

"You all right?" Blink asked as Catalina hurried over.

"Oh, Race, I was so worried!" she wailed, her eyes wide with fear. She clutched at his arm and for a moment Race felt nothing but irritation for the girl. Then she buried her face in his shoulder and began to cry and all Race could do was touch her hair tenderly.

"Don't cry," he said softly.

"Let go of me," Spot snarled.

"Not a chance," Jack replied.

Race glanced at Spot's face and sighed. "Let him go."

Jack gave him a penetrating look. "You sure that's wise?"

Race nodded. He knew Spot well enough to know that he was safe from further assault. Jack lifted his brows but let Spot go; Blink and Mush reluctantly followed suit.

"You're not welcome here no more," Jack stated as calmly as if mentioning the weather. "So don't come around here making trouble."

Spot gave Race a disgusted look. "Don't worry yourself there, Jacky-boy. There's nothing in Manhattan worth coming back for."

"Then it shouldn't be a chore staying away," Jack answered.

Spot spit in his direction, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Remember what I said, Racetrack."

"I'm not likely to forget," Race answered, his hand once more going to his ribs. "You damn well beat it into me."

"Always got to be funny," Spot retorted bitterly.

Race let out a sigh. "Just go."

Spot stared at him for a long moment, his eyes so full of hurt and grief that they almost burned. Then he spun on his heel without saying a word. Race watched him walk away, not once shifting his gaze until Spot rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Beside him, Catalina continued to cry and when Race turned to look at her, Jack's eyes caught his. Race licked his lips and hurriedly glanced away, not wanting to acknowledge sympathy for Spot he saw in them.


	17. You Do What You Have To Do

You Do What You Have To Do

_July 28, 1899_

"Spot's not going to come," Jack said, unhappiness written all over his face.

Race chewed on the end of his cigar for a moment, then let out a mouthful of smoke and a sigh. "Did you think was?"

Jack tilted his head back and stared up at the sky. He shook his head reluctantly. "No. I didn't. But I had to ask." He shook his head again, a hard look coming into his eyes. "Damn it, Race, we need him. And that rat bastard knows it. You should have seen him, smirking at me, enjoying the fact that I had to beg." Jack ground a fist into the palm of one hand.

"I don't blame him," Race admitted. "I wouldn't help him, if roles were reversed. And if you think you'd do any different, you're fooling yourself."

"This isn't about us, Race. This is different," Jack snapped. "Spot Conlon is smart enough to know that."

Race inclined his head in acknowledgment, but then couldn't leave it at that. "Last time either of us saw Spot, he was doing his best to beat the tarnation out of me. You told him in no uncertain terms not to come back round these parts. You think he's going to be the bigger man and lend us a hand after that?" It was Race's turn to shake his head. "You're a bigger fool than I thought if you believed that would happen."

Jack was silent long enough for Race to finish up is cigar. "We need him, damn it," he repeated. He made a frustrated noise and punched the side of the lean-to.

"That help any?" Race asked with a calm he didn't feel.

Jack sucked on his busted knuckles, eyeing Race in a way that did nothing to alleviate Race's growing fears.

"No," Race said preemptively. "Don't even bother asking."

"You know we need him," Jack plowed on, as if Race didn't say a damn thing. "You know we do. Spot's a big man these days. Lots of folks take their lead from him now. And if he ain't with us, then we might as well just give up now."

Race dragged a hand across his face and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. "Don't make me do this, Jack. Don't make me go back to him. You have no idea what you are asking."

"He's not that bad," Jack wheedled. "And it won't be for that long. You just got to get back into his good graces long enough for this strike to work. Then you can drop him like he's got the plague. Come on, Race, Spot's the key to this working. And you're the only fella that idiot will even pretend to listen to."

"God damn it, Jack," Race exploded. He felt ready to punch a wall himself. "You know what it was like between me and Spot. You know how hard it was to make a clean break with him the first time. Don't pretend like you don't. If I do this . . ." his voice trailed off and he let out a sort of moan. "Jack, if I do this I don't know if I'll ever be able to . . ." he trailed off again, not able to articulate the dread and fear welling up inside of him.

Jack, for his part, smiled that cock-sure smile of his and threw his arm around Race in a jovial manner, like he wasn't the reason Race suddenly felt like his ship was sinking. "Don't go borrowing trouble now, Race. You just go make things right with Spot and leave the rest to me. I'm your best friend and I've got nothing but your best interests at heart. You know that. Trust me, Race, I'll make sure you don't regret this."

Race closed his eyes and sent up a prayer, because, Lord help him, he was doing what he vowed he never would. Race was going back to Brooklyn.

* * *

Spot glared down at the paperwork spread across his desk and fisted a hand in his hair. He shot a glance over his shoulder at the door and then mentally cursed himself for doing so. He stood, shoving his chair away from the desk with enough force to topple it, and then cursed again.

_Why does he have to come now,_ he thought to himself as he set the chair to rights and began to pace the narrow confines of his room. Five steps to the door and five steps back again, his hip brushing against the desk each time he passed it. Spot ran a hand over his face and picked up his cane from where it was leaning against the foot of his bed. He tossed it into the air and caught it, then tapped the brass head against his cheek.

Spot gave the door one last look and then shook his head in disgust and sat back down at the desk, determined to give the papers the attention they deserved. He picked up the first one and attempted to make out the words that Paddy had scrawled across the top. Spot squinted at the smudged ink and sighed, setting it back down.

He hunched his shoulders, refusing to look at the door again. _I should have expected this,_ he thought almost frantically. _I should have known it would happen._ He glanced down at the note his boys had brought him a good twenty minutes before. Race had been spotted crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. It could only mean one thing, what with the visit he had received this morning. Race was coming to see him.

Spot rubbed his eyes and tried to tell himself that it didn't matter. That he was over that useless bum and that he could get through this without breaking a sweat. Too bad he couldn't make himself believe a word of his mental pep talk. Spot sucked his lower lip into his mouth and let his head sink down onto his crossed arms, his vision narrowing to the scarred surface of the desk.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Spot felt his heartbeat speed up in anticipation. He had told his boys not to bother him without good reason, and they knew damned well what that meant. He straightened at the three taps at the door, slapping a smirk on his face as he shifted in his seat.

"What?" he barked.

The door opened a crack and Ginger stuck his head in. "Racetrack to see you, boss."

Spot turned back towards the desk. "Send him in." Spot forced himself not to watch but he couldn't keep his ears from straining to hear what was happening. There was a low murmur and then the sound of steps retreating down the hall. He licked his lips and then school his expression into one of composed indifference and glanced over his shoulder. "Racetrack," he said without a hint of emotion as his eyes all but ate up the sight of the other boy.

"You know why I'm here," Race said shutting the door behind him and crossing his arms. "So just let me say it and then you can kick me out."

Spot winced. He wouldn't help it. Clearly Race was here against his better wishes. Still, Race was _here. _And that wasn't something Spot ever expected to have happen. He slapped a wide smile on before he twisted in his chair to face Race. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Race snorted. "Going to play it that way?" he asked leaning back against the door. "No matter, that works better than having you scream at me till you're red in the face."

"Come around here where I can see you without having to crick my neck," Spot said, still trying for that friendly tone. He faced the desk again, shuffling papers in what he hoped look like a purposeful manner while Race slowly made his way to the chair opposite him.

"I'm gonna tell you outright that it was Jack's idea that I come. He seems to think that you'll change your mind if I ask you sweet enough." Race scowled. "I never knew he was such a fool."

Spot smiled in response. "Jack's always been a fool when it comes to getting what he wants."

Race nodded, but didn't smile in return and Spot felt a stab of pain at the reminder that things were not right with them. That they probably never would be right again. He let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"Look, Race, this isn't something I'm going to just up and commit myself to on account of Jacky-boy wanting me to. And, no, it ain't got nothing to do with you and me and what went down between us. I'm not the sort of fella who lets personal problems cloud his business sense. You know that as well as I do. And you also know that I'm also not the sort of fella who won't make the most of whatever opportunity I'm presented with."

Spot paused, knowing what he said next had to be perfect. He drummed his fingers on his desk and then said slowly, "You explain to me why this is my concern. I swear on my mother's grave that I'll give you a fair hearing. So lay it all out, give me your best argument. And if you convince me, then I'll come tomorrow. I'll bring my boys and all of Brooklyn will stand with you on this. But if you don't convince me, that's it. Game's over. Got it?"

He studied Race for a moment until the other boy nodded. Then he made a show of stacked the papers in front of him neatly and then opened a drawer and put them in it, giving Race time to think. Satisfied that enough time had passed, Spot returned his attention to Race.

Race rubbed his temple and sighed. "I don't know what Jack said to you this morning, and I don't know what your other sources have been whispering in your ear, but truth is, this is more than just Manhattan's problem. This affects every one of us newsies, no matter where we live. Now," he held up a hand as if he expected Spot to protest, "I know what you are going to say, that things are on the up and up in Brooklyn, that you don't give a damn about a rate increase because it ain't going to change your game any, and you are right. So far as the boys you got under you are concerned, you're right."

Race leaned forward, bracing his hands on the surface of the desk. "But what about the boys in Brooklyn who ain't under you? What about the littles just starting out, the fellas in the small change games? It will matter to them and you know it."

Spot frowned. "Those boys ain't my concern. If they don't want my hospitality, then they can just make by as best they can. I won't spit in their eye, but I won't do them any favors either. Paint as pretty a picture as you want, Race, but this is still Manhattan's bit of trouble. Everyone else has a different structure with a strong leader around to make sure things don't get too tight. And, yes, people are coming to me, asking me what to do. But they aren't fluttering around in concern about the price hike. They're fluttering around in concern about the strike."

Race pulled a face. "If you think they aren't concerned about the price hike, you're kidding yourself. The first thing they asked me in Midtown was if I knew what Jack was going to do about it."

Spot blinked. "Midtown? You went to Midtown? What, were you afraid of Brooklyn, Race?" he asked before his brain caught up with his mouth. Aggravating Race was not in his best interest.

Race's jaw tightened but his voice was calm when he said, "I've made it clear what my stance on Brooklyn is."

"We both know where we stand with each other, Race." Spot said smoothly, almost taken aback at how natural the words sounded when they came out. "But we have history. You've Brooklyn in your blood, even if you won't admit it. Of course I was surprised when it was Jacky-boy who showed up. And not by his lonesome neither, which I could almost understand, but with Boots and some hoity-toity new boy so green he don't even have a name yet."

"Yeah, well Jack's decided to take on _The World_, not me. I wasn't going to just tramps on over here and do the hard work for him."

Spot laughed. "What do you call what you are doing now?"

Race cracked a smile at that. "You know how Jack gets, nattering on about something till you want to smash his face in. Figured it was in everyone's best interests if I just bit the bullet and did what he wanted."

"Sounds familiar, that," Spot said with a nod. "So it was Jack's idea, this strike?" He frowned. "Doesn't sound like Jack to me."

"That's cause it's really David's idea," Race replied with a shrug. "Jack might have been talking, but it was David's words coming out of his mouth."

Spot tapped his chin. "This David, where did he come from? I ain't never heard of him before."

"Nobody's heard of him before." Race rubbed his neck. "He showed up a few days ago, selling papes on account of his father's busted arm or something. But he's a decent sort of fella, for all he's bookish and uptight."

"He just showed up a few days ago and he's going around pulling Jack's strings?" Spot's eyebrows shot up at that.

Race shook his head almost angrily. "He's not pulling anyone's strings, least of all Jack's. He's just got ideas is all. Good ideas. And he knows about unions on account his schooling. David's an asset, Spot. Not a liability."

Spot snorted, but said, "I'll take your word for it." He leaned back in his chair. "I still haven't heard a thing to convince me to help you out of this pickle you're in, Race."

Race's eyes shuttered and he titled his chin up. "As cold as you ever were, ain't you Spot? Without a spark of human emotion in you and so blind to loyalty that you wouldn't recognize it if it punched you in the face."

"I don't see what cold's got to do with it." Spot glowered masking the hurt that flared up in him with anger. "As you said, I'm doing alright here for myself. My boys, they're doing alright too. Ain't none of us going to be crying in our soup over this here price hike. You Manhattan boys can't say the same. Now if you want me to risk my boys health and happiness on account of your boys, you better give me a damn good reason, Racetrack."

Race gave him a frustrated look, then ran a hand down his face. When he spoke, he sounded defeated. "We need you, Spot. I need you. I'm going to be in one hell of a tight spot with this price hike. All us boys in Manhattan are. Now, Jack, he's got himself a plan. A damn fine plan, if you ask me. And that plan won't work if the rest of you fellas don't go along with it. I know you ain't got no personal stake in this horserace, Spot. I know it won't matter to you one way or the other. So how about this. I'll give you something to make it matter."

"What in the name of God are you talking about?" Spot asked, eyes narrowing.

Race didn't say a thing. Instead he reached forward, grabbed hold of Spot's suspenders and tugged him forward. Spot's ribs slammed into the desk and he opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word, Race's mouth pressed tight against his.

* * *

Spot fisted his hands in the fabric of Race's shirt and pulled him even closer. Race let his tongue trace a path across Spot's lips before biting down on the bottom one and tugging. Spot closed his eyes and moaned, shifting his grip from Race's shirt to Race's hair.

And just like that the past fell away.

Race forgot all the reasons he's given himself for not doing this. He forgot the way they had fought, the bitter words they had said. He forgot the bad times, the way Spot looked at him like he was nothing. He forgot all the lonely hours and the days that dragged on like they would never end. Because Spot was touching him, Spot was wrapping his arms around him and pulling him back under even though Race promised himself he would never fall again.

Spot broke the kiss, yanking back so hard that he toppled his chair. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

"A kiss," Race answered with a shrug and a causal air he did not at all feel. "Nothing to get all worked up about."

Spot's eyes darkened. "Nothing to get worked up about?" he repeated. "Have you lost your mind, Race?"

Race swallowed. He hadn't expected Spot to react like this. He shrugged again. "You don't have any personal stake in the matter, right?" He waited for Spot to nod. When he did, Race continued. "So I thought I'd give you a little taste of what would be in store for you if you tossed your hat into the ring."

"Is that so?" Spot's voice was as cold as a day in the middle of December.

This was not going according to plan. Although that was not particularly surprising, given how little thought had gone into Race's so called plan. He had spent the whole of the walk to Brooklyn attempting to come up with something other than "go down on your knees and beg." At the time "try to talk him into it, if that doesn't work, kiss him and see what happens next" sounded like a good idea. Now, however, it was starting to seem like the stupidest thing he had ever done. Still, there was nothing to do now but brazen it out and hope for the best.

"Are you in or what?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You taking to selling something other than papes now, Race?" Spot snapped, his eyes wide.

Race glowered at him. "The hell I am! I'm no whore."

"Oh really?" Spot gave him a hard look. "Then what do you call what you just offered me?"

Race felt his words like a blow. He took an involuntary step back, shaking his head violently. "That's different. You," he took a deep breath. "We aren't like that, Spot. You know that. However things ended between us, we aren't like that."

Spot's eyes were brimming with something dark and unpleasant. It was clear that he wasn't pleased with Race's fumbled explanation. Race tore off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. "Say something, Spot," he pleaded.

Spot let out a long, shuddering sigh. "I'll do it," he said finally. "I'll bring my boys into your fight." Race opened his mouth but Spot cut him off with a raised hand. "But you, you aren't going to be paying me for it. Understand me, Race?"

Race nodded. "I," he started, but Spot cut him off again.

"You and me, we're going to pretend like that never happened. Got it? We aren't going to talk about it ever again. That way when you see your lady, you won't be ashamed to look her in the eyes."

"My lady?" Race said, completely baffled. "What lady?"

Spot hunched his shoulders. "Don't play dumb with me. You know who I'm talking about."

Realization dawned on Race. "Catalina," he breathed.

* * *

"Yeah," Spot said dully, "Catalina."

Spot felt bitterness bloom inside of him but he only nodded and hated himself for bringing her up in the first place. He stared down at the desk between them, determined not to look at Race until he could control his features.

Race sighed and Spot heard his bed creak. He risked looking up long enough to see Race slumped on it, his head in his hands. The desk suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.

"I never would have done something like this to her," Race said after a space as long as a year. He sounded the words were being ripped from him. "I loved Catalina. I wanted to marry her."

"Wanted?" Spot asked and then mentally cursed himself for doing so. He raised his eyes and studied Race, who still had his head in his hands.

"I asked for her hand." Race's voice was tortured. "Stupid of me." He laughed and the sound of it made Spot's chest ache. "Her father kicked me out of the house without bothering to let me finish my request. Her brothers told me to never talk to her again. Said that I was nothing but a half-breed street rat with nothing to offer but a life of poverty and an Irish surname."

Race lifted his face and Spot had a visceral reaction to the hurt stamped across it. He fought back the urge to close the distance between them, to touch Race and offer what limited comfort he could give. Comfort Race didn't want and wouldn't appreciate being offered.

"They were right, too," Race said softly, after a pause. He stared down at his hands, his face bleak. "What could I do for her? I'm nineteen and I've got nothing but my name and a bag full of mismatched clothes. I ain't got a job that could support a family. I ain't got any skills. I'm nothing but an overgrown newsie and I won't even be that for much longer." He shoved his hands through his hair and stood up, slamming his fist into the wall.

Spot felt like he was being torn in two. One half of him was being ripped apart by the agony in Race's words while the other was rejoicing over the fact that Race's hopes had been so thoroughly dashed. Race married? He recoiled from the thought.

He watched as Race nursed his hand, letting the silence between them grow. Finally, Race shook his head and said, "The past is better left in the past."

Spot didn't know how to respond to that, so he simply inclined his head. "I'll be there tomorrow," he said for lack of anything else.

Race's face brightened. "I look forward to it." He held out his hand and Spot crossed the space to take it. "You're a better man than I gave you credit for," Race said solemnly as he shook Spot's hand.

Spot smiled at that and kept on smiling as Race made his way out the door. But he stopped smiling as soon as Race was out of the room. He sat down at his desk, pulled out a piece of blank paper and started writing. Not only did he have a strike to plan on top of running his territory, he also had a siege to plan. This was the second chance he never thought he was going to get, and this time things were going to end different. Because he'd be damned if he let Race slip though his fingers again.


End file.
